Futures

We're all waiting on the precipise of change
dreams of ruin and revolution
And yet most afraid it'll stay the same
the same series of dwindling choices
our mothers and fathers had
with even less power

But it feels foreign in our bodies
and there may be just enough idealism left
and enough enlightenment beyond our years
to always have voices

Our engineer wants to know what it feels like
so what if I spill over with it;
perfectly indulge the impulses
give the reins to my body
and give everything else away for free
I'll be a sexually satisfied saint
and I refuse to pay for it.

In one direction I see
endless tree lined hills
and flush vallies
in the other the city
filled with hot, stifling, stagnant air
lurking in the nooks and crannies of hope.
Hope; in every street mural, vegetable garden
and urge to get nearer to one another
My heart would grow small
without all of their faces

I could not thrust my hands in the soil
to feel the mana
Or incorporate my surroundings into the paint
like grasses, pebbles, and seeds
or transcend myself with each person I meet
or at my worst submit
to feeling as absurd as the stranger
walking alongside his mother's coffin;
without them

Worshipping the biological
recognizing the psychological
running from our weakness
for pathological falsehoods
disguised as answers

there are as many solutions
as truths we can imagine
and I'm picturing a future where
I'm in love with the people
and the soil
and reclaiming the broken remnants of the industrial

Even if every move I make is inside of
the outside of my belief system
Even if all my interactions
are objectifications;
Still always detached from the appreciations
because I've been alienated
from all communal feeling.

Still I trust my body
and I still know what love is
and I sit still to listen
to the cosmic rhythm
She says, Don't worry

It's coming