The difference between wondering if the
crowd will respond and expecting it
Not with anger's demand directed at the jostling
faces, but at the unseen face
Collectively asserting a will at the
establishment, the man, the repressor
Whoever is on the mountain will be given
the hell-yeah or the middle-finger salute
Not in a demonization of reducing the
self to a guttural miscreant bent on anarchy,
But in the revelry of a preacher, the
leader as anti-hero, wiping the slate
For celebration of the underclass to
lose the link to the mundane
Screaming aloud in galvanized chant to
become alien and domesticated
In a foreign congress raising the gavel
in a sea of millions asserting
A commiserated sentiment wafted about as
the energy in the air
A rock-star fosters this kinetic-will
like a survivalist with the friction of sticks
Rubbing God from the very oxygen we
breathe to ignite
The flame seen in the headlights of
difference
Between Saturday nights and Sunday
Mornings
The drum beats, chorus, the bass
throbbing lines of cocaine-adrenaline
A man stands firm in who, what, and
where he is in the moment
His life on a stage and no one to blame
what comes out the microphone, but free-will
Aloft on the swan’s wings of beautiful
destruction riding a pyromaniac's Armageddon
To lay waste to the assumption that boys
and girls should stay in the play-pen
When mother and father look away; the
dangers are what prevent zombification
The sodomy of the paycheck, the racial
waiting-lines of casted nets
Choirs singing on fire, alive-fanatics
for the enigmatic reverse-transportation across
Einstein’s formula from body into photon
shedding mass for the Higgs Boson
To go faster than the speed of light and
traverse back in time
To forget all the horrid lies of
adulthood leeched from adolescence
The sins of malignant confessions washed
away in the seafaring crowd
An ocean of forgiveness blessed by the
bravery to scream aloud
Every chorus, every word, of a God-damn
rock-star raising the congregation
Showing the beauty in the self-that
sometimes a riot is an act of love
When not assaulted on the brother or
sister standing next to you,
But the idea that hinders minds from
that which connects us all
Rock-stars are good at that; I wish the
capital cities had a few more:
Joe Strummer’s, Chuck D’s, Bruce
Springsteen’s, Bob Marley’s, and Woody Guthrie’s
Not to serve as kings, but to raise
the people to sing for ourselves
And ignite a more fervent democracy of tumultuous-love!
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