The box...

There's only so much you can think                               inside the box.

Is it wooden? cardboard? 

What's it smell with, feel like, taste

                                                    of (if you're bored-to-brave)? 

                                                                                    But that's it.

Listening outside the box, you get ideas:

    I'm an anarchist! 

              Buddhist! 

                     Atheist! 

            I have no label!  

                                                                                       But those words

                                                                                            are all colorless 

                                                   until you throw them through the light.

I think that's why I respect old people: 

they've had

time, to climb out. 

                              Well, some just find a good-sounding line

                                 and say, “I'll repeat that from here; 

                                                 that's safe to claim.”

But others go out and break windows, 

steal cash, deface a

patient statue and realize, 

Shit! Maybe our group needs some rules.

We could put John in charge, to make things 

                                   more dependable.

Others sit long in a field 

and recognize, I can't concentrate!

                          How am I supposed to unite 

       with Gaea when I get restless between

                                            radio sounds? 

I like to own things! And to be right!! 

                                 I'm petty!!!

Others spend a decade 

wearing a pasta-strainer 

in their ID pics

                       to make a statement: 

how silly is religion's hold on people? 

                                        And then

                       at forty, think,  

I'm halfway to dead; 

I'm worried; 

     now I get it.

Others find out that                             electric organs make their skin tingle,

while pop is just irritating,                            and big-label country is fake. 

                                                                                       And they decide,

Sure, I like many sounds,                             but at heart, I'm a Gospel girl.

It takes time to figure out that you are the box.                   YOU, in your

body, with your half-dreamed ideas 

                                                                                     of truth and right; 

that make you feel

                                                                      like you're holed up, alone 

in daylight.                                                                      It takes a while 

to climb out                                                                               of that.

Virunga ...

             For money,                                                              they'll put holes through a home.

But I raised the apes                                                                    whose beds

                                                                                                       They'll bore. 

So I'm loading   a gun.                                                                      And

          I will catch bullets                                                               until I breathe 

                                                                                                      no more.

                      From a distance,                                                 what is a gorilla?

           Nothing but black leather                                            shuffling.

                                For an instant,                                      what is a gorilla?

                      Nothing but pounding                                 and huffing.

                             Without touching or                        watching them 

                                                                                             closely,

                                  Primates' lives seem 

                                             too shit-filled to

                                                                          Treasure. 

                                    When oil, ore, stones under-earth

                                     can be traded—their whole weight

                                         —for pleasure.

                                           But from a touch, what is 

                                                                           a gorilla?

                                        Loving and playing, 

                                                              intelligent power.

                                                For decades, what is 

                                                                     a gorilla?

                                               Growing and learning, 

                                             month,           day,    hour.

                              In an instant, from a distance, a man

                                                      Can aim, can make a gorilla 

                                                                                                  fall. But if

                            He never comes closer      with his senses

                                                                                       Than that, 

                                                                                            is he being a 

                                                                                           human 

                                                                                       at all?

Myself in the distance ...

Green shadows                                              gray                                   away,

            lighter and                              lighter                                  until

                   the fog seems             everyth                          ing.

          Each           tree is just a tree;

             every             row, a row.                                            Yet

                        the more       I see                  of        all

                                     the less             of each      I   (think
                                         I)                     know:

                                         I see      leaves,    so  close

                                              on the   nearest    one—

                                             smooth-topped  and

                                                 fuzzy-backed,     catch                       ing

              a                              veiled sun.    And   dry                ing

                lo       wer-           branches, thin   and

                  brit          tle           brown, that

                       must itch      before                    they

                              fall off,    I'm                imagin    ing.

                                      One   known    tree. 

                                                              Short,

                                           by the    measure of 

                                             those at its side. 

                                              And

                                                       me. Not even 

                                               tall enough

                                               to be        part of that 

                                                      towering line.

                                             I could cut them all

                                              down; make them

                                            square   towers. Still,

                                           what       a small life

                                                                    is mine.

Dominestication (song) ...

If you want love,

you've just got to remind me,

what is my name?

And are you gonna tie me

up with them chains

all along the ceiling?

Call me insane,

but I get a loving feeling

from you

when you

whisper

to me

bla-l-la-l-la-l-la-lah.

What's a safe word?

And will I have to use it?

Are you a bird,

or the cat who would abuse it?

Girl, I don't mind

flying in the deep end

long as I can

recover by the end of the weekend.

I want

you more

than my

perfect

skin.

[instru.]

Take off my tie,

and everything that's regal;

I never feel good,

until you strip away what's evil

You grab a knife;

I'm afraid you're gonna land it

into my thigh,

but you just make me a sandwich.

You turn

my heart

up red,

like a

stove.

You're al-

ways on

top 'cause

your a-

bove.

Is this

pain, or

Dharma,

is this

love?