Waiting for the Soil to Warm

Fostered cabin culture

normally hosts waxed

moustached patrons
sup-slurping on artisan

brewed brown ale;

a vast industrial space

filled with neutral

woodland shades.

Tonight though, outside

the street is a funnel;

the weird wait to be distilled

into the furnace.

Reverberating music will replace

smoked malt wheat that has

been sweetened with honey

free from elitist pesticides –
the International Festival of Psychedelia

beckons us.

We are like the cicada that waits for

the perfect soil temperature before

surfacing into the world…a world

where musical priests stand with

straightened backs and proclaim

their vision is cocaine.  Where

South American women glide past

their shoulders, with a rhythm that

is steeped in ancient mystique

and seek a sermon that is not

forthcoming. 

Their eyes state

detached lunacy

that transcends

understanding.

Unable to see Austin-inked arms

lock for a moment’s memory;

they miss the union between

the beautiful and the veteran –

both seasoned with wisdom

that cannot be taught. 

They await a

higher purpose.

Subterranean excitement pulsates

until contact is lost with external reality.

 

Cigarette skins and kaleidoscope glasses

bring magic into our life,

Cicada psychosis in segments;

the soil now warm

enough to burst free.

Tomas Bird - Hot Moon 2015