Good morning, mother.
Hello to your rays oozing their way through three layers of shirts
On this cold autumn morning.
Greetings, from your trillionth son to walk upon this trillionth earth,
Whose voice shouts across the void of his own mind.
And so I write to you one scratch following another.
There was a tale about a frog who helped a scorpion
To cross a river only to be stung halfway there,
Because it was my nature said the scorpion.
And while we let ourselves get stung
By orange men in business suits
And pimply students dressed the same.
Like our brown, black and orange robed brothers,
They are our very selves.
So homage to the whales singing across the sea
And homage to the sun’s warm rays
And the cold winds from antarctica.
Homage to the scorpion and the orange man
Homage to all that is dark and all that is light
As you let each one of us, your very selves,
Find our voice.