Titled

This is what I do:
walk, half-drunk,
in the middle of the night
to a house of ill repute
for the simple pleasure
of making music happen.

Cold as it is,
I’m comfortable.

Perfumed gloves is such an evocative
image, I wish I had written it.
There is always time for writing though,
and that’s the essential irony:
we cannot control time, but we can
certainly use it productively, hey?

Melting snow, falling from tree
branches extended over my walk,
falls on me to delight me and to
remind me of where I am: home.

The walkways are cleared for late night wanderers.
Conspicuous seekers of all that can’t be understood,
these lonely sentinels of need curve space and time
with primordial passion for unadulterated adventure.

Expel the gas of yesterday’s untoward
reflections,
the time has come for revolutionary
minds to
seek their satisfaction among the petty
thieves,
within and around the criminals who
would
make absolutely stunning generals of
chaos.

Complaints should be addressed to the home office:
666 Wedontgiveafuck Avenue,
Care of:
Mr. Somebodyshouldgiveyouarustyprincealbertagainstyourwill
In:
Takeyourspectacleladensocietyandshoveitsidewaysupyourgapingasshole.

The time has come, children of desperate need!
Let it begin!
Let it rain insight and wisdom!
Let it pour tolerance and understanding!
Let it storm lightning bolts of comprehension and tear through thunderclaps of cohesion.