Suburban chores materialize depression.
Towering snow banks intimidate today.
Selfish preservation wants the sun to work,
but others would think me lost.
I am lost; I am hiding,
but please don’t think me lost.
I will survive all of you people.
I have my contrivances.
I find garden gloves with summer soil,
grab my tiny music power box, ear buds on.
I will not crash.
YEEEEAAAOWW, The Prodigy –
I’ve got the poison, and
the remedy is The Prodigy.
Howard Dean seem like
the Queen of England.
I scream gigantically, and all is fine.
Neighbors are bottled against the cold.
Out of tune, big huge in spirit.
In summer, they called the hospital.
I was dancing with the lawn mower
in my baggy shorts, black socks
and tennis shoes from a nuclear winter.
They heard me screaming in joy.
I am embarrassing to all who love me,
but oh, if they let me out,
how I dance and survive,
how I survive the insanity
that hides in crevices,
wants me all gone,
makes me SICK,
wants me hanging from my Oak tree.
dancing with my bright red shovel,
my spirit is juiced, jacked
snow washing away, running away,
moving so good, so roundly nutty.
At the sight of our primitive dance,
the neighbor in Humvee,
mouth wide, astonished,
she wants to export me.
“You’re no good for me.”
I dance, The Prodigy sings loudly,
I hear all women I have known
singing this with the horn of a Honda,
a persistent beeping horn
for cracking brains open.
If you don’t like The Prodigy,
you will never tolerate my darkness;
you will see me as scrap for dogs;
you will work to obliterate my spirit.
“I got the poison, I got the remedy.”
If you take my Prodigy, the Oak tree
will master and destroy my good plans.
Is it true that only the insane,
only the forsaken love,
only they need The Prodigy?