You have drums for four reasons.
A plain white shirt, permanent crease black trousers, tap tap tap
along the lucky boulevard intoxicated, scaring up tunes into a
sneak attack! I want a town to know my mask!
I wont fill out any forms tonight,
I would rather catch romantic
powders that leave me staring at a music as deep as rain, sleeping near
a peeling laurel.
Whoever speaks now, talk no more about Eden or witchcraft.
I walked on thirsty earth, where the sun bumped me like a man
learning to dance with one foot grounded to the floor.
I count us lucky that the voices in our heads were sane,
that the light yellow parakeets that scared us lived only
in our dreams, and that those dreams do not cling to us
as dirt clings to a clump of grass, or the ink from a pen
ruins the good blank pages in the journal of a fool.