the marijuana glove compartment...

...talent all outta proportion, more than should swim in this tiny pool, yet we refuse to think for or help ourselves, no matter how representatives prove they not truly for we.
drowning ourselves in fantasy lifestyles rather than contemplate our reality, we never identify and run no risk of resolving our problems.
these dark days are one with cowering nights, these nights the silence squeezes tight, a veil of oppression staunching attempts at productivity already broken by sirens and hiding from the tramp of those government boots…
doh sleep to dream when nightmares stalk dreams to change the world.
still, live curfew music is made at a small gathering of guitars, minds and restless artistic spirits, softly but persistently defying the state because we cyah let them take this; new songs are voiced of these nights’ troubled debate.
small groups gather, and bigger ones, in spite of knowing we need profess no malice for trouble to come to the door, kick it in, ramfle our lives and leave us rummaging through rubble in this twilight zone; we gather knowing they say we shalt not and are prepared to stop us; we gather because we are, thus we must.
so music is made of this, bodies move to this, visions become visible through this, creation will come of this surviving the state of emergency. we will create question, create protest, create suggestion, create+recreate ourselves, re-evolve, become a new nation anew, become ourselves…
walk good.