We marvel at the Flashing light
that is now! Oh, this is amazingly
bad, some say, the reason for the
bad must be the flashing light!
An alcoholic like me knows better
so picks up a book or two, Googles
some history, cries that tear for
Native America walking away from
their land, the one they bonded
with so well;
A land now captive with a European
lust for gold.
England and other nations ran
out of room years ago; ran up
against each other, lost their
gratitude for land—the kind
first people have, from Celtic
Druids to Aboriginal fluidity
listening to the flowing ground
and mountain peaks, river songs
so attentively and tenderly.
You can hear the song today, if you
step outside our perversions
I yell at the helicopters on Twitter,
campaigning for native peace
while the wave of corruption
and trash litters the dream that
was Otsungna in Los Angeles,
a Tongva place of Roses until
we laid down the concrete and
asphalt, calling it good, God’s will
and Manifest Destiny…
The shiny ball is a racist, incompetent
“president” now, but he is propped up
by the insanity that humans can
lead other humans without divine help.
You kick God out, and this is what you
get, read about Samuel.
God’s my king and president, but that’s
sort of a locked-up secret told between
My ancestors came here for fame,
gold, and adventure—imagine the
England they left behind, full of shiny
balls, lights and problems—
nine out of ten of us I’m sure
on Jesus’ wide path to destruction,
so let’s yell some more on Twitter,
try to buck them toward the LORD.