a breif pause from studying about adaptive radiation in lemurs.

[aqueous_sammo]

Many of the poems I've been writing recently are poems that I can't post on here.  For one reason or another, they're not things I think people from home should read.  Not right now at least.  Maybe they'll be in another book that I'll have ready by summer.  Maybe not.  Let's just say I'm opening chests that up until now I have more or less left untouched in my writing.

But here's one I can post.  This one has a tune to it, and I'm going to learn some guitar chords from my friend so I can play/sing it.  No title yet.  I think I need another stanza/verse too.

God, God, God,
with his silver steamrollers,
coming round
to name my bones among the ground's own.
God, God, God,
with his electric steel guitar voice.
Such large amplification
for what should really be
a humble, 
humble thing.

Now where is the soul?
Where is my soul?
Now where am I,
am I going to lay my,
lay my bones?
I was told,
I was told,
the north pole is freezing,
but it's nothing,
to heaven's kind of cold.

Meanwhile there's too much damn graffiti
lining my subway esophagus
so when the words come out
they're all just scrawled names and places--
no sign of homes,
or faces--
just an alphabet
of anonymous,
anonymous tones.

God, God, God,
shouldn't be on a loudspeaker.
He should murmur in the fire
when you find yourself alone.
God, God, God,
should live somewhere outside Stehekin
He should wear green corduroy
and live the life of
a humble,
humble thing.

Now where is the soul?
Where is my soul?
Now where am I,
am I going to lay my,
lay my bones?
I was told,
I was told,
the north pole is freezing,
but it's nothing,
to heaven's kind of cold.