Man, you take my pretentions and you
iterate them like minimum wage Warhol
So reckless like you own the technique
and I watch you and I
can’t begin to fathom the magic
When you take that farce and reconstruct it
making truth for the only population
that still knows it —
those ever-fucking monkeys, cultureless but alive
and imbued with that essence
you so shamelessly exude.
I think your words are heavy and you
know that’s what you wrote, what you sang,
tire walker, sign talker,
bridge stranger burning.
Yeah, on the universal train
my thoughts went to you,
and at the final destination like a night shack monk
they were whole, better for the journey,
driving, driving to the gates
to zen candy afternoon, murderous peaceful
You are the loudspeaker plague and I —
I wish I was your shaman.