Remember That Every Son Had A Mother

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

We're Herded Into Schools And Terrified Into Behaving. Taught How We're Supposed To Pretend To Be, Taught To Parrot All Kinds Of Nonsense At The Flick Of A Switch, Taught To Keep Our Heads Down And Our Elbows In And Shut Off Our Minds And Shut Off Our Sex. We Learn We Can't Even Piss When We Have To. That's How We Learn To Be Plastic And Dumb.

Learning To Love Differently Is Hard, Love With The Hands Wide Open, Love With The Doors Banging On Their Hinges, The Cupboard Unlocked, The Windroaring And Whimpering In The Rooms.

Nobody Can Live On A Bridge Or Plant Potatoes But It Is Fine For Comings And Goings, Meetings, Partings And Long Views And A Real Connection To Someplace Else Where You May In The Crazy Weathers Of Struggle How And Again Want To Be.

The Anger Of The Weak Never Goes Away, Professor, It Just Gets A Little Moldy. It Molds Like A Beautiful Blue Cheese In The Dark, Growing Stronger, And More Interesting. The Poor And The Weak Die With All Their Anger Intact And Probably Those Angers Go On Growing In The Dark Of The Grave Like The Hair And The Nails.