yes, yes, yes, us people are just poems
we're 90% metaphor
with a leanness of meaning
bordering upon hyper distillation
and once upon a time
we were moonshine
rushing down the throat of a giraffe
yes, rushing down the long hallway despite what the PA announcement said
yes, rushing down the long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity fermented and distilled to eighteen minutes
burning down our throats
down the hall
down the stairs
in a building so tall
that it will always be there
yes it's part of a pair there
on the bow of Noah's Ark
the most prestigious couple
just kicking back parked
against a perfectly blue sky
on a morning beatific
in its Indian Summer breeze
on the day that America
fell to its knees
after strutting around for a century
without saying thank you or please
the shock was subsonic
and the smoke was deafening
between the setup and the punch line
because we were all on time
for work that day
we all boarded that plane for to fly
and then when the fires were raging
we all climbed up on the windowsill
and then we all held hands
and jumped into the sky
every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
looked more like war than anything I've seen so far
yes it looked more like war than anything I've seen so far
so fierce and ingenious,
a poetic specter so far gone
that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on
and I'll tell you what, while we're at it,
you can keep the Pentagon,
you can keep the propaganda
and each and every tv
that's been trying to convince me
to participate in some prep school punk's plan
to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air
and there's ash on our shoes
and there's ash in our hair
and there's a fine silt on every mantle
from Hell's Kitchen to Brooklyn
and the streets are full of stories sudden twists and near misses
and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
with tales of narrowly averted disasters
and the whiskey is flowing like never before
as all over the country folks just shake their heads, and pour
so...
here's a toast to all the folks who live in Palestine, and Iraq, and El Salvador.
here's a toast to the folks living on the Pine Ridge Reservation with GI Joe still coming back for more
here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors who daily provide women with a choice
who stand down a threat the size of Oklahoma City just to listen to a young woman's voice
here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now awaiting hot oil or guillotine
who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads to
find peace in the form of a dream
cause take away our Playstations
and we are a 3rd world nation
under the thumb
of some blue blood royal son
who bought the Oval Office in that phony election
and I'll tell you while we're at it, let me state unequivocally,
he is not President of Me, he is not President of me
cuz I, I am a poem heeding hyper distillation
I've got no room for a lie so verbose
I'm looking out over my whole human family
and I'm raising my glass in a toast
here's to our last drink of fossil fuels,
let us vow to get off of this sauce
shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
and find that train ticket we lost
cause once upon a time the line followed the river
and peeked into all the backyards
where the laundry was waving out on the line
and the graffiti was teasing us from brick walls and bridges
we were rolling over ridges
through valleys under stars
i dream of touring like Duke Ellington in my own railroad car
i dream of waiting on the big wooden benches
in the grand station aglow with grace
and then standing out on the platform and feeling the air on my face
give back the night its distant whistle
give back the night its distant whistle
give the darkness back its soul
give the big oil companies the finger
and relearn how to rock and roll
yes, the lessons are all around us
and the truth is waiting there
so it's time to pick through the rubble,
clean the streets,
and clear the air
tell our government to pull its big dick out of the sand of someone else's desert
and put it back in its pants
and quit the hypocritical chants of 'freedom forever'
cause when one lone phone rang in two thousand and one
at ten after nine on nine one one, which is the number we all called
when that lone phone rang right off the wall right off our desk
and down the long hall down the long stairs
in the building so tall
that the whole world stopped
just to watch it fall
10% metaphor and 90% tragedy
shhhh, listen to the poetry.
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