by Ashley Beth
We are a collection of cackles
Bearing scars of spirit on our backs
From the time the Shaman had the Devil whip us
Right around the time our happiness
Cracked
Each and every one of us
Bear this same scar marking
It unites us in our quest
To honor our dead God King
We are Shamans, each of us
Birthed from the mania we’ve all had diagnosed
Or more like that mark of madness was
The fire we’re due betrothed
None are perfect
None are whole
None are rich
But together we form a circle
Bringing light given off from which
We light the World
And the long road to Truth
We might seem undercover
Because we are truly all sleuths
Straight outta Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew
Tell me
Which of the old stories
Was a favorite to you?
Our woodly paths written by Thoreau
Our seas charted by Hemingway
All those editions ago
Our stars spangled by the Fitzgerald’s
That they stole from their Long Island Hideaway
We the people
Of this written word
Pound on our Royals
Send by text, mouth or bird
The good news
Of the Prophet Realization
We’re all waiting on the same train
In the same 99% train station
See it’s the 1 percents set the time
And the 1 percents the destination
And they won’t take too kindly like
To your overcrowded frustration
We sell poppies for $9.99
Poppies to help you sleep
We’ve repaved all the yellow brick roads
With China tar bought cheap
“Now I don’t know anywhere that still sells
That original American Dream
But you can probably find it at Walmart
If you bring a current, valid I.D.
You see
Nowadays, son,
You got to prove that you’re real
And we ain’t talking about your invisible friend
That is all yours, that we can feel
We mean you gotta prove to the 1%
That you’re not an honest crook
So they’ll let you play their game
Even though they wrote the book
Pretty soon all we’ll have left
Are cockroaches, plastic and telephone prompts
Ya see, that’s what we prophets
Have been sent here to Stop
