by Stephen Aloysius Bischoff
Living in a world so cold you gotta be tough as buffalo nuts
Fur mane so thick you can’t run fingers
Through haphazardly braided knots
Born with a second skin, a skeleton hidden in the basement
When the master calls at night for what you got left
You shake your head and listen to voices in memories
Secret ideas forming geometric plans in the black of your eyes
Night is always colder on the moon in winter
No chemical explosions keeping the soul warm,
Some other hidden force keeps the feet moving one in front of the other.
Small town’s too small, big city’s too big,
Penetrating to a place where heaven and earth have not yet divided
Your geist, your voice
Is that of the wind through existence.
Wandering out to a place God forgot and man never knew.
Knowing the truth, we’re not separate from the world
Accepting the nothingness
Walls can’t be formed to trap ideas
Dread freedom from ghost marrow
Existing in a society
Where the artist has to live outside
And manipulate it for their own needs
Driving from the back of the bus
Hustling soul as a reminder
Of what makes a heart beat
And a mind curious.