like you had to much coffee
And you gravitate towards an open window high up on a high rise
And you imagine the bottom
But it's a little too risky.
And you know you'll miss the sunshine
when it hits you like whiskey.
So you run to the elevator,
head full of Chomsky.
And take a walk through what you saw from the window
Asphalt and trees, grass and automobiles.
A little sun shining and a little breeze blowing,
And people with souls they try to conceal.
Some kind of radiation raising you to your feet,
feeling real in fields surreal.
It's as if the gods have got you by the gonads.
They want to know what you have to reveal.
Except for the traffic
everything is quiet
But there's an echo
that no one's got control over,
That strikes at your psyche
and gets you looking in the grass for a four-leaf clover.
That drives you like your stomach does when you're feeling hungry.
And you get the message your heart wants to be a forgiver.
Up on the hill, there's a good view of the city.
Everything serene,
the mind pauses
and blends into the scene.
Someone who believes it, says God bless you;
and proceeds to explain,
how the path to divinity
is spliced into the genes.
The roadblocks are obvious,
when your nose is pressed against concrete,
and standing around are guys in khaki , who with every second word they swear
and mock and stomp their feet.
They rip through bags of poetry,
eyes hard as sleet.
They follow procedure,
no small talk, not a peep.
With missiles pointed from silos,
and people eating fear and hate, with their cake and their kool-aid,
And with state sanctioned shills singing through their teeth,
I took a breath while the music played.
It sounded like Joe Cocker or Tom Waits singing Bye Bye Blackbird backwards.
I was dressed for the masquerade
Feeling jaded , I headed for the surface.
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