Not quite in the cosmos, not even tierra firma
My spirit is rooting forth and budding backwards
While ink counselors make worlds of words
Strangers teaching in the village and yet
remaining unheard
Nugriot negros with songs sung by the rope
and lynching of tounges are wheeling zero
philosophical doughnuts in a parking lot
so I drown in the river of hope so
the thundering silence
of noncreation could kill me not.
I lose my feet in the butterfly dance
I learn lessons from crying ancestors,
the wisest eccolalians, and orouboric mothers
who tell me that sometimes
you don't have to be marooned on dry land
and ignoring phantom limbs you can see
doesn't mean they don't exist auditorialy.
from first cry to last blood
you'll go through more of life's kinks
than all the curls in your spiraled hair.
to be sonic wonderkinds
is our legacy
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