Ode to “Maggot Brain” by Eamon Thomasson

Wailing of the strings in the cloudless night

In the quiet abode of the stars.

Dying people wandering the expanses of the desert plain seeking

The water under their toes

The call of the coyote.

To feel there is nothing, but to be comfortably a part of it.

To feel that a throw of the dice could have given it all away

Or won it all for eternity.

To be under the weight, heaving upward.

To be the subconscious weight, stifling the rest.

To discover, upon diving, the corals and fossils of the depths

Emerging from the vacancy of the sea to the hummed chords of the distant sun.

the catalytic vibrations of the day in a cyclical dance

Tracing the avenue in its cement sarcophagus.

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