it anchors feet
to concrete and
tethers inspiration
to the wearer.
the colors are
myriad, mystifying,
carelessly colliding idolatry,
save for those
too poor to matter.
the voice I heard
spoke to me a litany of memories
of our rapidly-changing
neurochemical landscape.
it drives us via rhythm
drives us towards desire
and teases imaginary hands
toward unfeeling heaven.
it was the sound
of forty thousand insects
being crushed by the
tiny, gleeful fists of children.
the voice spoke as a
multitude, a host,
unverifiable in enormous, overwhelming,
blessed volume that
captured us bodily,
nailed us to this corpse,
& forces us to love.
[*Response: We will never be free.]
We are enslaved by survival; *
We are chained to each other; *
We are rooted in the dirt; *
if our work would lead to supposed Paradise; *
We will free ourselves when breathing the air of every being. *
