March 17 by The Running Son
truth is i dont fit or braid in well.
truth is i cant make split ends of it all.
truth is i see common roots, and how
we run the slow lengths of one another,
tangle so and how we choke out each other,
and when the fits come wind whipped
and we froth at the tips, and the ribbons round
our hair brain ideas and numb skull
theories split, truth is I may fly a solo strand
on the slipstream of idealism awhile, but
will land by law getting tangled among you all,
and will eventually corn row my own shit
slick as the gypsy stylist
leaning gainst my trailer park wall.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.