And here half the block is out of
juice, the lights are low, and the music is
live. Today people clap ant the end of a song, and the heat is out. Perfect
mood for
someone to slide closer to me. I'm waiting for the
storm, rain, lightning, and darkness. I'm waiting for the morning to come. Perfect situation to wake up next to someone. But people are leaving out the back door.
As the lights are re-kindled and the fans regain their rotation,
the energy dies. Conversations stop, the
music misses a beat.
I feel this
environment, like a blown transformer, like pulses of energey rushing through the fragments of
conversations that step my way. This place presses against my sholders and eases my head down.
And once again, it's busy and bustling. Everyone is moving like atoms, sitting still, but spinning. And you hear the
hiss like air being let out of a tire
tube, and watch the muscles
relax their grip on the
joints of their victims.
Everymorning I burst trhough barriers,
consiousness flows like dead spinal fluid carriers.
and napalm burns in the arms of a nation
that's seen it's own beauty underneath nuclear mushroom clouds.
Consiousness gained through ancient shrouds,
as holy songs resound in a far away place.
When behind each doorway
something sacred menaces,
to steal our hopes and dreams
and fill us with empty hands.