teeth festered on the edge of a stick, broken bones bound by grass
a drawing on the cave wall…
it’s forgotten memories of bullwhips and copper chains and tattooed numbers,
broken bulls and slain men and fetuses held up at dawn–
sacrificed to all that can be bought.
the penny is when we hit the tip of
of the end
this is just the afterthought.
…maybe I should just reference that anarchic pull inside of me, the razzled strips of energy flowing through me, my grandiose moods, and my inability to sit still for bullshit or wait for the train…Perhaps it is my ancestral neuroses filtering through my brain, flooding my soul – the Bushmen of Africa, the Aboriginals of Australia, and the Adavasi of India all are historically nomadic peoples and have influenced my genetic make-up. It may have some relevancy, but it seems too academic. Let’s get down to it: By “nomad,” I actually mean those who may be tramps, but specifically – those not allowed to be mad. No mad people. As in “You cannot be angry.”