compose love songs for the radical humans

i rode my bike to the midsummer music festival this year and camped. I stayed sunday night and helped take down on monday in order to get my ticket reimbursed. slam poet magpie ulysses caught my ear at a fireside gathering with her work about the wonders of the universe and aghast at the commonality of social ambivalence. she was not preforming formally in the festival but once the stagemusic was done, many artists such as her came out of woodworks to share their talents in more intimate settings. her words made me want to shout AMEN. I couldn't find the one commentary magipie did by the fire that gave me generationally-releveant goosebumps, but I found this which is still fantastically rad. Here's the transcription:

"coming undone"

take my heart from my throat and smash it

see I’m freakin out

cause the way things seem to want to be right now are all in a slight shift to the left

but I don’t really ever want to permanently return back right

so i drink from the indoor water feature of my favorite downtown hotel

I eat drug deals and dust and shade grown snail mail and I wait...

for what I have always wished upon a star for. which is this:

this moment for which I come undone in a quiet fury, ya see inside there is no silence in madness, but sometimes it creeps up on you as quietly as sheets too long a lines

as the tides wander of orcas and gravity, as her lips moving softly on her death bed wondering if she will ever play that grass between her two thumbs again. And sometimes, it’s as unknowing as hands that have never moved soil with shovels, as small breasts - and I know about this - as small breast in big bolsted dresses as the crows whispering sunset and I wait for daylight to come like the embalmed’s breath of open-caskets of children killed in car-accidents. I wait. To be marked by the passing of these days that feel like bricks to my teeth. I want nights spent reminiscing in a wine-soaked bathtub of that time I lost my shit. But I never want to smell that same sweat-stain again , and in the minutes that feel like years, this is the power of an unmarked passage of panic. In the prayer of those that will wield their boots to stone traceable pathways into night time mug, and all the places they will wander looking for dark places to hide, and the sounds they will seek to share lost lust secrets with. Because you see inside, the quiet fury is LOUD LOUD LOUD. Says “lady just do it”, c’mon, make plans with other people’s mouths, made yours, so they will never again know a kiss without words. Steal fruit from the orchards, fall in love six times a week, lady open your legs - so they can breath. Drink far too much whiskey, take bouquets to your favorite steel structures, kneel down and pray, don’t wait for that train though, run! Challenge strangers to races on the steepest of stairwells. Compose love songs for the radical humans, just take your ambivalence to these imbalances that prey on you like electric-convulsive therapy on your brain, strangle your indifference to death, and breathe, breathe, breathe. Because we can all spend this life pretending that we are just slow moving mississippi river made ____[?]___. But there are flowers still pressed to a butterfly screen, pressed, and they are hopeful for drydom to pour them, so please, let my flight of fury let it take its clothes off in the public fountain, and if I wait.