Michael Franti

Lost for age

I guess it hasn't ended yet. That I was foolish for even thinking it would be like some barrier I'd pass through and then everything would be just fine. This must be what comes of listening to a narrative that's made for cattle, for crowded milk-mothers and pieces of tenderloin roasted up for the finest dinner hour running every night, for the rulers of a more tightly managed ranch, one that keeps on gobbling up every piece of land that's usable for their instatiable appetites and desires. And then feed these cattle with the bits and bones of their own bodies until their mind rebell at the very stench into senility.

The regret of memory realized wrong. The impassable barrier of time. The realization that what was spoken was as idle as the wise fool home after finally learning something; but as every hand knows is