By Justin Cude
What strange times we’re living in.
The times they have-a done changed, old friend.
Thanks for the poetic warning.
A scene far stranger than the governments anti-psychedelic propaganda campaigns of the sunshine years.
Only the lookers could see this coming.
You can’t unsee this madness unfolding.
You don’t come back from this trip.
Neither might the world.
What an abstraction on the horizon.
I’ve seen light from the cracks once or twice.
Leonard told us to notice.
Gold even poured once before.
The mind’s alchemy says twice, and might again.
But concrete dries quicker than it mixes, and they mix it quickly, don’t they?
And, I might be gone a long ole’ time.
That’s the way its been feeling.
Ghosts from the past made human again.
Sleeping with those still more recent.
Darkness dies to light then has its revenge again before its over.
A worthy opponent who shocks the crowd with each landed blow.
An underdog for unknown reasons with blood in his eyes from years of irreversible attrition.
The only fight worth a damn to hands untouched.
The birds still fly south though we’ve confused them.
It’s harder now to know the way.
I’ve slept under clear skies with no stars.
But have held the sun in winter til dawn.
The world needs her then so I must stand to go despite the cold.
Wild poppies provide rich and vital blood for the fields they devour.
And color when you chose to look at life for the way she moves.
City Reads NYC 