Riding While Cities Burn

All rules break. All loves go belly up.

All deaths become eternal shards
of memory. All countries melt, curdle,

stick in the nose. Or not! That is the truth,
friends: countries, death, love, history,

the whole caboodle, fully empowered
and happy. Laughing songs, carousing

in haystacks, belly flat like the Flat Iron
Building, and youth or old age irrelevant

to betting right on the money
which becomes the host, or the poem,

in the barter economy, socialist return
of true value to true grit, oh lawdy, lawdy,

let us not fight anymore about power or
powerless, and dance in the superstructure,

strum lutes, put on Halloween masks
and get on motorbikes, go for the ride.




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