In the highflown language
Of moon travelers
Social scientist sort our hearts-
Add their smog-crippled vision-
And rearrange our private pains
Along the Wall Street of current demands;
And my people become the
Cocaine that makes America high:
Become dreams
America sucks through maniacal straws of sleep;
Discounting our lore,
The scientist say we cannot love
say our needs are numbed:
But sometimes,
When you construct knots in my throat
And your lips re-create my heartclock,
I am hypnotized by the aggregate passion
Of my past by the sum of my historical ecstasy:
A power we know
Cannot be stilled by airborne theories of scholars
Nestled in Freudian citadels:
A power that cannot be seen
Heard
Or flattened to fit the pages of a book.
Eugene B. Redmond
Come on family, let’s not let our POWER be stilled
or our LOVE numbed by airbore theories of scholars
and their smog-crippled vision.
But be that that is the sum of our historical ecstasy.
Have a great week family,
Peace
Tenthltr2u
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