Driving gloves no longer stick to the steering wheel
the way they did in summers past and
snot slicks it up and the radio buttons glisten
with thumb prints and the dash streaks
underneath street lamps passed by where
boogers and boogie men got smeared.
Practice come live; before panic breaks down
walls of reality and we all mash steel drum lips
to sound more human and who is who
when the rain falls on all of us and
the sound trickles in to our ears as
a cacophony of concussions with each one
reaching one before a drum stick has landed.
Fuck you, this is my planet, wait.
It is not, this is your fucking planet.
Janus? Gemini? Gnaw. Circling a dog star.
All born the same with passions the same
wills the same converted into expressions
of peace and rest that get misinterpreted
into statements of war and rust and gusto.
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes to sanity
let's go ahead and clip the profanity.
Fuck you. What did I just say?
Remember the planet on which we could all play?
I don't. I'm not a prophet and I'm always ready
to get up off it. Build the ships
and I'll start a new colony.
This one is dying and I'm glad to be a rat.
I wasn't invested. Galaxies is where I'm at.
Hibernate and I'll time travel with you,
when you wake I'll be happy to wake too.
Star scapes mean a lot more now.
When you're ready, I'll hold your hand
and move town.
