To live for tip tap beet how they greet wounded windows.
To say the dance is livid, lively, proven providence prevented
this day from basking, or moving portraits posing prominence.
Let long the tethers be quashed, the arrogance of the mash,
the brevity of rotunda. Capture sordid castrations of color
as frolicking follicles of filamented files in heavenly spirals
make you remember this blasted November.
Dance to renounce desperate claim to fake-humanity.
Dance to taste spilt milk spelled out in rapids.
Dance to give the giver of life claws.
Dance to make manic romantic’s clumsy flaws resolute.
And in the wee hours of the disparate, few know
that I consoled you.
For the dance of dead zombies sordid in strife –
come to fickle midwife berthing unborn boys.
Oh, heal the Dance and its joys. **** the banished toys.
Let them dance their fairy hue.
Dance like lude and previewed and spectral integration.
Dance like unwashed wood’s vile vines.
Dance like ludicrous anti-Valentines.
Dance like you got no soul like never whole.
Dance off rumors dance off begotten dreams,
dance off liars and their tattered seems.
Dance, but know that you should crawl if perchance
the little apple should sing and rewrite everything.
Maybe it is, with the subtle shimmer of the soul
that in the dance we are but pajama poisons to the whole.
Albeit the raging repercussions,
the ****** of test-tubes, of sirens
and meticulous violence fighting fringe capitalism,
leftist indoctrination, rhyming placation
and yes: methodological praise.
Lift the star off its rays
of undoing wooing pants off eager gents.
And in the eclipse of memoire, the cusp of selective rhyme
of distant AIDS, white-washed promenades
I’ll write a sultry verse of elegiac curse
and vehement little taste buds collecting
to imbue naked weather.
And with the clawed off Calypso
we choose neither celery nor the jukebox.
We choose: the ***** of the punch bowl
the clout of claustrophobia,
cornered in Captive States’ palisades
given grades of grim to not-so fantastic.
This chaos is not to be a subject of social engineering.
But to DANCE – God to dance right nuptial
with frisking air limbs scattered – plumbing everywhere
distributing despair carelessly from our Earthly bodies.
World inches past tomorrow has sounds of sonatas.
Yet gallows will chide, lunatics glide, releasing
the feeble, flimsy figures and rudimentary makeups
of the human race, along with it, the mellow trance:
the feline feminine foreclosure of forthright fathomless fiends.
In it the clocks of clever, candorous cadavers
that still lather the pedestal that poignant prudence deems
NECESSARY to support our survival,
It is simple truth: to do the opposite.
SO burn, churn, play, foray, give grieve,
reprieve, glaze, glisten, char, christen, blare,
vindicate, tear, truly satiate, mar, placate,
place power in your-own hands and show your puissance!
Heal your pallor, accept the vintage seed,
Don’t hide the greed and the pillaging of our past.
The blood is pinned to us all but we can RADIATE.
Mandate a better future NO meager beleaguered children –
we can salvage this situation
galvanize grunt work for the Earth
instead of our masters in declining stasis.
And we will not suffer. We will masticate
on fruits of the Earth in our favor,
our grunge will be washed our cells inflate
as we derivate the truth of our origins.
We cannot be stones in sorrow like this.
We cannot borrow the opinions of others but
salivate on the inspiration to create.
you to glimpse the true future of our race
and initiate a tour of the universe,
to tweak your consciousness, start to twitter
like birds and not like social media,
twirl your sons and daughters in clean air,
and ink your family’s book of kin.
To echo the song of John Denver, “Let Us Begin.”
This poem was started on November 3, 2009, then rediscovered 11 years later and re-worked into "The Dance or 2020" on November 16. I never understood the 2009 version. It was rhythmic but made little sense. Reading it 11 years later, I believe I was able to bring out its true meaning.