There’s no coincidence / miracles surround When the sun begins / pass it around ** Open time for me we’re ending the fire denied I’ll pay your chances / one is your life Night dance in street talk / make me your wife ** Open time for me we’re ending the fire denied Slip on a
Civil? Ha! The government is making civil war using the people on “we the people” Now the poor people in masks Are killing the poor Killing the racial Killing the loving Angry cop, poor people. Are killing peaceful, poor people  Hateful banker bros Order a war of poor against poor Build ball rooms of
Music: Al Gromer Khan (“Conga Jog”) Words and Remix: Willi Brown leaving aside all evidence that discipline is a dragLet’s assume that humansall want some kind of goal Then the question is how we get there and, the input along the way that changes your objective and modulates your soul … Wish I could claim divine inspiration Could unfold
I’ve decided that “it” is inevitable and has momentum like a motor car rolling downhill. Climate collapse – death of water bodies, coasts, forests, humans, animals, insects, etc. – is happening now! And humans holding meetings and legislating carbon reduction targets is just theater arising from collective shame. We blew it. It is conceivable (non-zero
It’s no time to complicate To arrange or communicate Add more layers to the dress Consider angles of load and stress Master techniques, straighten lines Research approaches, estimate times Prepare the process or perfect the plan Apologize or repay the man No time to add another flock of words Just time to vanish like imagined
In the thick of this / I miss my drift In this crowded city / I cannot gift (pre-chorus)Try to swallow my life / Try to disappear in the fog You can only follow my coattail / I’m only wagging the dog (chorus)I’m leaving town / Driven by the overwhelmI’m leaving town / Though my heart just finally got here I’m leaving town /
Who will read this? Me? Doubtful! The urge to write is strong. The drive to tell the story as a way of appreciation, a way of savoring the bright white contrails of a plane, heading east in pure blue – stealing time from the Earth rolling slowly in the same direction – and now, far
friends, I miss you out there / in all the worlds / friends, I miss you A morning like today, like any other, like you say, that coat could have done. that election could have kept you warm. And yet, so this morning, out the door you flew to Washington, to wishful thinking, to those
“there’s nothing to do / nothing is wrong”
Oh …stay my hand that seeks your palm forgive my ear that longs to sink into the pool of your voice which only music of the purest tone could bear. your skin is buttered, vibrant before the crust of my longing time is now the blade between this midnight poem and the resolution of my