CYCLES

It was gonna be a big summer, you know, a big summer Every one since then too, "a big summer" "Gonna be a big summer" Yet, somehow that's never the case, is it? It's the sprawl of autumn, isn't it? It's the crunch, where one can never daytrip You know living myths can come true Sometime it might happen to you, especially if you live outside of time Anyway, the rhyme you are about to hear isn't true But, it isn't false either Any resemblance between this rhythm poetic exploration in reality is Purely magical, purely magical At the end of the world, we was fightin' back with brushes and pens We decided that the suffering should end, no matter how good it feels Wooden shields ain't stoppin' bullets So we dropped those, quit lyin' to ourselves Started writin' poems, got stronger by ourselves Kinship bein' the hunger that we felt, so we trusted that Made moves from it Got busted backs, bruised stomachs Ruby yacht, whole crew illustrious We did those stints, tenures, benders, bent censures, spent ledgers Unyielding, a taste of they own medicine Every member is also president How could you stop what you can't clock, hmm? (If within the last century, art conceived as an autonomous activity has come to be invested with an unprecedented stature The nearest thing to a sacramental human activity acknowledged by secular society It is because one of the tasks art has assumed is making forays into and taking up positions on the frontiers of consciousness and reporting back what's there Being a freelance explorer of spiritual dangers, the artist gains a certain license to behave differently Matching with singularity of the vocation They may be decked out with a suitably eccentric lifestyle, or not Their job is to invent trophies of experience) But things go backwards, the wrong people get placards You get a collection of spatulas, heavy brow lines Sacrificing down time for the wrong guys' good graces Shoulda held them aces and betted on self Eventually we're all just heads on a shelf Trophies in cupboards, mopey customer Doping up for a big day again, really it bores me We're the stuff that's so boring, hijacking stories Sapping the gold from the blood Mogg swore they from mud Be the first ones to judge Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth Swear I just know my worth Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth Funny how cycles work Peace to the eternal spirit and soul of the grandmaster Jack Whitten An idea is a work of art From Chicago, Illinois to Bessamer, Alabama An idea is a work of art Peace, peace, peace, peace