Get up and go,
let's rhyme, let's shine
like Glory Days
Jovi used to have
when he was
twice as relevant
and thrice as mad
with his ability to twist the kids,
mangle language
and flip the lids.
It's a day of days and
fuck what makes
the world go round
or who finally pays
when the tax man cometh
in springtime days.
We're travelers
looking for monsters
to slay with broad swords,
shields, hit points, and more
credits to play than
Trump in Chuckee Cheese.
With ease we leave
the world behind and mind
your business in back seats,
churn up your lawns
with laid away cleats
and thoughts that make
your chiefs beat up war drums
and hum tunes to appease
the falls of feet
on war paths
warring against
sore pasts and
more glass breaking
in micro street riots
with pilots targeting
gaggles of us
gathered on corners and
looking villainous,
but really all we want
is a place and time
to turn stunts and
stunted growth
into things magnifique
and a chance to dream
bigger than the span of
street to curb top
because we may not be
the best or the worst
at everything we do,
but we are
living in the shadow of you
and to deny us agency
in the face of all we've been
and are going through
is a crime truer to
reality t.v. and made more
unreal by the cut of
your blunt tooth, so
let the p.o. box stand empty
in some black and white and
let the rusted bike by the
unfinished porch be photographed
in poor, nude, draped light,
because we don't care
and couldn't give two
for the visual artist's plight
because we are five hundred horses
draped in gold sheet metal and
when you're pens and brushes,
paper pushes, and finance crushes
make you sleepless by absent daylight
we don't ever give a fuck
because what we do is write.
