Sound is sizzling
through my dense, gray brain
in my droopy work capsule
plodding with seething, abrasive, sickening rubber remnants
torn from red balloons.

Music licks and pants at my sanity.
Poisoned, weakened,
my slouch blends and mixes and breeds with blue dust mites.

Music, she sparks her revolution.
Golden coins pop
out of the lone corner of softness in my brain
that is still alive and trying to be almost pink.

harmonies and rhythms take these very certain paths,
and my golden coins,
they are F-14’s; they fly hard in the same paths.
They fly.

I’m good now.
Flying away.

Harmonies and rhythms take these very certain paths.
I’ve met the purest joy
in the most massive lightning bolt
that smashes, shocks and torches all of the sickness
hanging in my paralyzing concrete parts,
and in my capsule,
and in the people who kick my soul over and over.

Harmonies and rhythms take these very certain paths.
Have you seen me fly with my music?
Faster than you can believe, the flight,
blurring and screaming and howling,
the grandest party that should never end
if there is a god, and there is a god when I fly.
There is. I fly.
I am flying far away,
and my silk robe from Kings of long ago
will carry all of the good of humanity
far away to these bridges
sparkling in silver and dressed nicely with my gold coins,
and we will cross all of these bridges in a splendor
being swallowed by wide open mouths of whales,
full of love, manifesting to all,
love that came from the tail of my King’s robe and has red and white
and whatever color you crave, the one that makes you cry in joy.

Harmonies and rhythms take these very certain paths.
This is the land where I love to go. The brightness.
But alas, the batteries in the MP3 unit run dead,
or someone actually needs something having to do with work.
We can have our bony slices of heaven; we can.
I declare.
We can.