Out of the Box (P.C.)

[beat_fan]

Walking along the bleak shores of the cold,
heartless sea, I saw a weathered man eating
from a box of feathers
("This is how I can capture the sensation of
beauty so vividly,"
he half-screams, unaware of the noise
of his own voice,
the bizarre distance of his general posture).
Walking the sidewalks of an overgrown suburb
in the stiff, stagnant summer,
I saw a tiny girl singing about music, a song that
her mother taught her
("I’ve always wondered what a song sounds like,"
she says with a burst of innocence that
could make tears to cut through ages of detachment).
Running to the open country plains,
and the warm, red hills, I see heard a man of maxims
standing on a stump of cracked clay
("Burn the boxes... Hate those who hate all the way to hell...
Smell roses, and if you don’t, then watch your
fucking back!")
I looked at his face and so some glimmer of every person
I’ve ever met, including me.

So I stood up shouting, " Am I ever totally free?
I want to run everywhere and feel the thoughts of
great crowds of people, the wonder of sky and ground
joint at line in the distance of eyes.
Where is the bird?
I want to hear her soft, simple melody in the sky,
making love to my ears.
Am I ever free?
I want to taste earth and all of its random things.
Where is the fetid dandelion?
I want to know that musk again, to feel deeply that
fragrant stench is not a redundancy.
Am I really free?
I will know if I can run to center of a city,
put out my hand, and feel the wind."