Thanks, Tom

I gotta try, for a change
For change
To let loose and flow free and write and write and write
My fascination has always felt empty
Always derivative of some alien countenance
Inspired by nothing but the wind
But it’s all I’ve got—and now I’ve got it.

I won’t dance to liberty
I won’t dance to peace and love
I won’t dance to anything but these
Foaming suds,
And if you’re gonna call my name
You’d best be right and game
I’m gonna shake your tree,
I’m gonna drink you up.

At the camp I felt a swoon come over me
A pleasant nausea trembling in my mouth
As I spewed conversation across the fire like lighter fluid—
It fizzled merrily.
I prayed and prayed and prayed and remembered hearing my solemn prayers echoed back to me through the tunnels of my ears
Despite the implications, I was sure this was Him.
I convince myself of Him day in and day out.

He’s a pleasant fellow, silent
But possessing the big stick, dig?
He likes to listen more than speak,
And more than a few have told me it’s just me in that old head of mine
But I don’t mind... He’s alright the way He be.

(I feel like now is the right time to interject “fuck” so as to make me seem more rounded as a poet)
Fuck.

I slipped off into the violent breeze rocking those digs
(The ones on wheels)
And felt a sleep like no other;
Pervasive yet absolute it was,
Like it invaded my world but soon claimed it was all that ever was
I believed it too.

I won’t die before liberty
Not before I get my peace and love
Or at least another mouthful of these
Foaming suds.