Social graces are--
becoming overrated
far away from our minds.

We're finding vines
of thorns in the gardens
of our blooming lotus thoughts.

There's an echo of drums and primal screams
and we feel lower than dirt
disconnected beneath the earth
our cosmic tongue severed
and waiting to grow
out from the ground.

We shout out--
silently hoping
for meaning in the greening
grass smoking
choking up
& burning down
old rickety clown cars
we thought were sound ideas for living.

What-does this matter?

Courtesies bug splattered
against our windshield--
a metaphor representing
plowing through the ****
to find the truth
of us.