I'll be out in the woods someday,
that's what's at the end of the road,
sprinkled like chips if you don't mind,
in a frosty October morning.
What would it take to get away?
Would I trade it all for a begging bowl?
Or tell the oil company to piss off,
and let them help me disappear?
It doesn't have to end that way,
but lets face it, they built me.
The computer, the pen, the paper,
the house, the car, the wheels,
the soap, the shower, the shirt,
the shoes, the toilet, the meat,
the air conditioning, the lights,
oh, and they fixed a broken bone,
they did all that,
but they did not suspend the sun,
place the brown earth down,
start a fire from lightning,
or let me touch the nest of your body.
I'll shed the skin they left me,
emerge in new words,
let the mosquitoes speckle me,
stay naked, learn to walk on rocks,
gain the strength of grasses,
stop turning their glossy pages.
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