The Humble Rock Dove

Hot and lucid, I consider,
The fact of my birth,
The assumption of mirth,
As I write this with a chill,
I display cold facts,
I am a veteran,
Of overheard chats.

Like I say,
I willingly participate,
In the chain of events that led me here,
To the facts that will precipitate.

The song of dirty birds,
Leaden with my names.
Proud, disgusting boastful,
Never anything else.

Shake hands with the boss,
And rot about.
Times for these changes, now,
Coming about, soon they say,
Coming about, coming about.

And why would you want or need,
To know the letter in my head,
To swirl in this illusion, in mind,
And in deed.

We think sometimes about better death:
Old men asleep,
Sinking into lush heart-attacks,
A word, predicting blood, much blood,
Will ruin plans of the quiet passing.

You will flinch in disrespect at their ways,
You will hate all things through yourself,
You will see all artifacts, blooming and blushing,
Hot pink tiles that bid you to feast on emptiness.

Perhaps, not you, not you, you did it well,
So a killer, become, and be done with that too,
Resign yourself to the tides as they swell,
And let a better rapper,
Diss you in their court of law.

Because it’s all flawed and continues to fall,
Its oft a wonder, that anything works at all.

Be extra nice to your neibour now,
Let their final flamed breath heat you like electric.
You get used to it,
You love it now,
You’ve become part of the feast
Of voyeur after seed.

And I could write lyrics about the battles in my mind,
I could draw letters that pulse pink,
With blood inside.

It’s all sincere, it’s all to cherish,
That cedar grove beneath the moon,
That twitches after midnight.

It can’t be so “easily subsumed”,
With silence in the mirror,
And nothing to stand on,
With wings longing to be shed,
Yet grateful, so grateful,
The ever-love, the humming dove,
Broiling and contained,
In lotus shapes,
Within me.

Just happy,
Only free.