OK GO.

Morning bright stars stare back into blank faces. Glowing minds and eyes daydream of a logical paradise. Social capital is the new human(e) currency; savoir-vivre the new market. Efforts relentless to build bridges between perspectives. I see a suit with a silver lining but no pockets for wrinkled dry-cleaning receipts. Acrylic on hope is the medium, very avant-garde. An elder stands tall amongst slouching pin-stripes. An opportunity arises from a gasefied curse. Defeat was never on the license application; sympathy was written between the lines. The mechanics of the human spirit need no oil.

(Photo courtesy of Jahiah)
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Seven Generations

Footprints turn to dust
A foreign place
A foreign time
A feigned disgrace
In a hereditary line
Seven generations
A proverbial light
An ancestral right
For life as a reason
To live
To give
To share tall tales
From Tahltans
To live
To receive
Gifts of black feathers
And eternal flames
There is no word for blame...
Footprints upset the earth
They are stories
Of no worth
Of no glory

Footprints and tire tracks
Meet us where we're at.