The Young
They always teach the young
about the bank and the police station,
but they never tell them
about the cuckoo clocks behind their faces
or the ghost whales swimming in the streets.
They say look both ways and don’t eat drugs,
but they never say
God is copulating with your field of consciousness
and they are both a dream that you are having,
or,
you can start over from scratch whenever you want.
Who is going to teach them
that grownups get hurt,
but their wounds can fill the air with butterflies?
Who is going to teach them
about the friendly moss gargoyle beneath their thoughts?
That the sky and their eyesight are one thing?
We will teach you,
the young answer back.
Your meat it is tired
from splattering against this old page,
and your mind is a washed-up accordion
on the shore.
We are unprecedented.
We emerge free from the void.
You do not fear for us,
you fear the unfamiliar.
Come rest your weary bones
in our strong young hands,
and let your butterflies erupt
and fill the sky.
We will carry you.
We will carry everything.
We are the new.
We are the young.
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