Can answer phones,
cold callers get greeted,
with hardcore punks explosive throb,
am a friend of tangled daydreams,
the soaring thrust of revolution,
the sounds of raging possibility,
the language of survival,
spirits that shatter division,
the sweetness of peace and unity,
the struggle for another world.
Can be found after sunset
under shadowy moonlight,
where I throw words together,
following an extemity called hope.
I avoid the attic,
it's where the answers lay forgotten,
it's in the garden,
where andrenaline kicks,
headfirst into the flames,
spills out contents,
as highs and hungovers are mixed up.
Read books, play music,
with shaky hands,
perform delicate tricks,
turn the pages,
as tendrils hook,
listen to the rattling noise,
on a high moon tide.
Blinking, lie flat on my back,
on a hillside above green fields,
near out croppings of grey granite,
the steam bubbling merrily around,
follow dreams, deep and fathomless,
work for love, that shows no profit.