Miller, Bukowski, Rumi
There’s a
rough &
tumble triadic
godhead worth
tapping into.
They rise
on the
wind &
blow thru
the wasteland
like
dust devils.
They unleash
freedom like
a kennel of
baying hounds.
They shatter
the rhythm
of our
drum corps
lives.
They turn
Moloch’s
dark ogres
into stone.
They promise
nothing.
