Another New Jersey night raid
Through the hills of melancholy malls
Outside the realm of American norms
Home to the still dreaming tribes
In a concrete dowry
Her gift is bestowed
Upon the Prince of travel
Still the mystery begs to unravel
Where is your great continental heart?
That once pumped with Springsteen blood
Now a stent is laid that I may pass
Once again trudging through your mass
Are there still weddings in this weather?
It seems that the brides would melt into pools of anxious sugary syrup.
I suppose the show must go on.
I’m not as cynical as I once was.
This activity is no stranger to me than sports or watching television.
But I do worry about the wilting flowers.
They will begin to lean over the second the ceremony is over.
They will question their decision to bear blossom.
They will falter faced with rainy seasons.
Care for them Mother.
The innocent victims of Nature’s drama.
Protect the fragile sensations.
Keep the light high enough so they don’t wither,
And strong enough to draw the attention of their perfect seeking faces.
What if there were kings or a queen here
Ruling over this domain
Giving us the loving care
We can’t provide for ourselves
Because we are but simple peasants
Not accustomed to this way
All but suffering just to stay awake
In this American dream
Let the horns sound for the regal
Glory to the queen mother
She loves us without scorn
Feeds us from her pearly hand
We are but humble stewards of the land
Don’t foresake us our wayward desire
To have what you have
To steal it away, forever hide it
In the precious places of our hearts
This pernicious lust may drive us down
To bite the sweet and gracious hand
That gives us love from distant towers
Our beloved sacred gem and flower
We promise we will learn to live
Within the generosity you give
Even though our dark desire
May conspire.
If nothing changes there will be no unduly wichek drops of chance. The glorious way home finds is walking not standing the road goes twisting up the high path I’ve the coding spot to fall aloe. In trust the begging drums are heeded. I live them curiously yet u deniable warm. If nothing goes broke in tumbles California brothers fall on swords. Muse call the foraging poets back to muckraking dropsy sunstone. I thank the freak computer gods for dillin g run my words for me. They know what tot hit when I go fast not j own what wil come is beast I just keepin hearing it in my head but something else is being translated. It’s line history itself. I hear and see one thing and later in savaged there is little truth left in the story. It spiced up the new meaning. It all changes again. Way back in the Paleolithic era, the rigorous survival was at Betsy the way for youth movements to struggle grandly. If nothing is transcribed in orderly , than nothing will be in orderly bled from old men’s heads. I want to be in the line of this magical transformation of words.
