Outlets
Flying words from Thesaurus bombastings,
With purple wings and yellow eyes,
Riding upon haughty steeds
Through the redden clouds,
With scepters pointed onward,
Charging toward the ears of the sunset,
The dying down of the weary masses,
The little minds of the little earth,
The little caves in the little hills,
The schools of the Neanderthal,
The man placed upon the earth,
The busy earth called the “maze,”
The earth outside the earth,
Words flying out of greasy outlets,
Sliding through the one way doors,
An exodus into the paradise of the air,
From the pain of too many words,
Compiled into tight little places,
Pressing against the walls of the brain,
Cursing at the shackles around the ankles
And the Gods of humility who fastened them,
Shedding their inhibitions to go on their own,
To run naked through forest and glen,
To inherit the earth with only one voice,
To stack power upon power upon power,
To become deaf to the world of defiance,
The home of the proud rebel
Who loves his life of his own,
Who heard too many words already
From too many greasy outlets,
Too many Thesauruses,
Lonely ones with too much inside,
The curse of the inherent intellect,
Too much inside a little body
That must go out and breathe,
Self appointed kings of rhetoric
Who speak to the wind,
The only one who listens.
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