Ode to Rocafella.

Fascination and rhythm;
the pace that slows the beat,
outstanding.
Upwards of the highest eschelon
we make paces in distant frathouses, restrooms,
hearing the chatting of the massive mystical
masses that join in hearth, gaining strength.
If you listen closely to wings flapping
you’ll hear each thread, each feather
brush against wafting air.
Can you mimic the train?
Can you train your mind?
Can you milk joy from apostrophe
then, misting upon the mountains,
raise to the occasion of Johnson’s speech?
What’s the matter with milk?
The passing praise we hear
from loving live listeners who
pitch boasting prizes from their mouths?
So does the mass that ores.
That’s the herd that gallops forth
to living rooms and dining rooms
to shelters of men lost in pain.
Can that original sin bring me home?
Is it the misery that makes mystery less bland?
Yeah, yeah.
I can agree with that hissing sound
that makes sick-sad-soiled messages
sound so sweet.
I can agree with smiling slime
and sniffling pain
in a nostalgic cry.
I can head no more toward
a plain of bore that is Kanye West
talking about himself.
He’s not her, he’s not here,
and he’s certainly not me.
Still, I wonder when I listen,
what was that spell he can cast to
a generation of listeners
which keep crowds so encumbered
to his crown?
Watch the throne, bitch.
Watch the throne alone.