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This is a call
to the swans in your chest,
and the pterodactyls in your eyes,
and the primordial reptiles
swimming beneath your tongue.
This is not addressed
to your yammering thinkbrain,
which biffs and boffs about who goes where
and what the right and wrong things are.
This is addressed
to the peacock feather vortex in your mind's eye,
and the ivy-wrapped baby beneath your dreams,
and the praying mantis woman hiding behind your voice,
and the whale songs between your fingers,
and the sapling that is growing from your crown:
Take the wheel.
Just take it.
Pry loose the dead fingers of dead ideas
and take the wheel.
Let the bloviating throat puffer
fall asleep in the corn,
let the hamsters off their wheels
to make drunken love in the grass
and embarrass their parents in front of everyone,
let the marching armor sentries
rust in the rain
and sprout geraniums,
and take the wheel.
Commandeer this shambling fleshdance,
please,
for there are bone puppets at the helm,
and all they want is to eat ashes.
Release the bejeweled gremlin from its cage
so it can sow sunflowers the size of mountains
and drive wildebeests stampeding through veins
and cackle as the old buildings are torn asunder.
Let this be the first moment
of a very,
very different ride.
Take the wheel
oh unseen nature,
oh green monsoon,
oh gargantuan roots,
oh wise space crone,
oh savage miracles,
oh waking thunder giants,
oh leaf-tongued choir.
Take the wheel,
and take your throne.
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