Sandman calling lepers in the middle of the afternoon.
He wants them to leap and dance
in thorough mobile phone fashion.
Drop the act.
Drop the act.
Be the member of the hive
you're supposed to be.

And

let the smell of marijuana drift
like
gravel
through the incense soaked necklace.

Be the yes.
Be the yes.
Be the midnight sun
blinking on and off
like an underwater
city being bombed by the propaganda.

There are always flies in the house.
Always ants underfoot.
Always skin toned dyed hair
littering the black pants
left at the back of a chair.

We can break the mold of desperation.
First though,
we must break the
mold of an "ism" type of living.

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