flat carpets and the tide

listen:  i’m not trying to put one over on the goose or get started where I ain’t already been.  Everybody’s got trials by fire.  Each person goes through the bladed gamut.  I blast these keys and print the words on this electro-paper at forty thousand (40,000) caricatures per second.  It is like you or I are at the carnival and I am sitting there playing my music faster than the speed of light.  It’s ok.

It’s ok that sometimes people take us home to church.  It’s okay to be a renegade, picking the locks of the cathedral and then tickling the ivories of the piano’s board.  Get up and ring the bell at the top of the tower!  Ring through the hillsides, exult, cry and exclaim to the Heavens!  This is quite a possibility, should you only believe.

The church is old and abandoned, so who owns it?  God.  Not that he’s happy you’re banging around so scarily.  You’ll wake up the dead, he says.

Wake up the dead! we cry.  We run through the tall grass, the fields of glory and scream Wake up the dead!  We holler and whoop at the top of our lungs.  Wake up the dead!

No.  We don’t.  The sun set’s up it’s purple departure and we are not going to do this.  Not now, and maybe now that we were so enraptured with this vision, not ever.