My head feels like a sack full
of brown beer bottles and horseshoes
in the back of a truck on a bumpy road,
there’s just too much movement
and clatter to take aim properly.
There’s nothing I can do about it,
I’m the passenger, not the driver,
the driver is out of his mind on drugs,
foot to the floor and eyes popping with terror
as if driving away from it all will make any difference,
hasn’t anybody told him the world is round?
He’ll just end up back where it began
and we’ll both have to start over again.
But the sun’s going to get us all in the end
and after the vultures have finished with us
our bones will bleach in the desert,
you, me, the driver and everyone else,
what’s left of us will turn to dust and
our children’s children will walk over us
not even knowing that we ever existed.
By that time we will have become
one with the wind, moving through the air,
whipping the oceans into a frenzy
or feeling the clip of an eagle’s wing,
tearing down the old and the sick
to make space for what is to be,
we’ll sing in harmony, with one voice,
a symphony played on telephone wires,
a low moan over the heath, whistling in the eaves,
or howling down the valleys and through the trees,
we’ll play like the organ pipes of the gods
and at last, we’ll know why we came.