Music by Bajofondo Tangoclub.
Paintings by artists of Buenos Aires and Cochabamba.
Words by me. Photos by me.
Click on YouTube link inside the frame to see this in a larger version.

You tell me “No hoo ha!”
when you see ballyhooh-la-la
‘cuz you don’t know who (ha!)
who can getchya good hoopla
I ain’t the grand poo-bah
I ain’t got much moolah
but I sure like to fool ya
with verbal cubix zircoonia
cuttin’ them gems like a jewelah!

My soul’s as faded as my shoes as my sighs
slip in fragments,
slivers
down on the ground, among the earth
those that catch them (at times broadside, others like snowflakes)
look up.. think
how lonely! how selfish! how foolish!
what ghoulish heights you pretend to inhabit!
is that might that has set your sights?
wonder why I’m running in circles,
the insubstantial mists
churning
the color out of my habits,
spurning the formulation of any accumulation
of words, ideas, action just
wispful yearning is all
that is apparent.

yesterday I thought I heard
thunder
only to realize
someone was scraping metal
over concrete
last night I awoke to a roar
dreams scattered like butterflies
fluttering into dark woods

I sat halfway up in bed
straining to hear through
the darkness
I thought I heard a machine’s dead moan
only to find

the night had let out
a storm
like a long-held breath
rain
like old, pent-up tears
smiling, sighing
I fell asleep

Let me dive deep into the diverse!
Let restlessness lead me
so that the world, not I, may feed me
what random tidbits it sees fit to place in my path,
so that my spirit may sit still to feast
on the sustenance in each moment’s happenstance
(despite my feet’s fitful dance).

Let every “let” here (as elsewhere)
make poem into prayer!
…because I’m not even close to there.
I struggle to find rhythm
in disjointed verse whose rhyme
I stretch to find signs
of connect between malaligned
moments’ mottled meanings…
that is, I dive but run out of air,
I search furtively for phantom feasts,
and I think I think too much.

Tierra mi cuerpo
Agua mi sangre
Aire mi aliento
Fuego mi espíritu

O madre, llévame, contigo siempre estaré
O madre llévame, contigo hasta el mar
O madre llévame, tu hija siempre seré

Ven mijo, mija, te fijas
en mí y te muestro the key,
llave pa’ tesoro for rich and poor so
solo pisa el barro mi piel
pa’ nosotros no hay tomorrow
solo hay hoy y por eso te doy
de inmediato abrazos mojados
y de paso trazo a tu lado
una nueva visión, fusión
de tradición y futuro
de lo puro maduro
o sea mar y muro
conteniéndose en ladrillos
y mil solcillos poniéndose
en ventanas metropolitanas
skyscrapers whose nails
the sky fails to notice
the lotus y el rascacielos
no tienen celos
de su compadre
todos me tienen a mí su madre consigo
y no, no me contradigo
contengo multitudes
tu también tienes estas virtudes.

Tierra mi cuerpo
Agua mi sangre
Aire mi aliento
Fuego mi espíritu

O madre, llévame, contigo siempre estaré
O madre llévame, contigo hasta el mar
O madre llévame, tu hija siempre seré

Ven mijo, mija, te fijas
en mí y te muestro the key
talismán for your journey
sin miedo, son, go on, go on,
inúndate, ahógate y rógate
a tu alma que te lance soga, eh
agárrala y así fluye sin miedo
agua transcurriendo tu piel
trazando mapas tributarias
contienes tantas tierras incógnitas
explorémoslas andando
al ritmo del compás
de las ondas subiendo
del agua que me das
devolviéndomelo en forma de gas
tu aliento uniéndose con el viento –
no te miento cuando esto te cuento.

Tierra mi cuerpo
Agua mi sangre
Aire mi aliento
Fuego mi espíritu

O madre, llévame, contigo siempre estaré
O madre llévame, contigo hasta el mar
O madre llévame, tu hija siempre seré

Ven mijo, mija, te fijas
en mí y te muestro the key,
which must be skeleton
to fit in all my skins
since insubstantial they fall
like air from my essence
from whence I can call
walls of wind to send
supposed solidity – say, a city –
into death throes that
may be necessary
to evaporate rancidity
but carefully, carefully
know that usually fully
destroying only comes
through you, toying
without sense with the balance
that allows death and dying
to give breath to new life
the balance
that allows all strife to send seeds flying,
the balance
that allows all shit to fertilize the fitful
growing of this new sowing.

Tierra mi cuerpo
Agua mi sangre
Aire mi aliento
Fuego mi espíritu

O madre, llévame, contigo siempre estaré
O madre llévame, contigo hasta el mar
O madre llévame, tu hija siempre seré

Ven mijo, mija, te fijas
en mí y te muestro the key,
soy la llave clave pero no te dejaré
flee from this edificio en llamas;
el artificio fue tuyo, y la fama
de morir en ello será tuyo igual
and the door here just leads to the hall
where all that burns is falling
so what I’m calling you to do
is to not move, is to instead choose
to use what you need and leave
the rest to die – no lie,
let this structure fly as embers
into the sky, let destruction
decry false foundations
and make solid ground
the only sound basis
no sugiero que tierra es mero stasis
sino que tanto llano como magma
está fuera de nuestra
consciencia fija y que
lo que mueve, mija,
te muestra las formas
de crear normas
y lo puro y duro
es lo flojo que fluye
o sea: el cambio no cambia
so now that you heard me,
ojalá the Word, sí,
the house ‘s fallen ‘round you
and you have found you safe and sound
so now you, what are you gonna do?

I set my eyes on the sound horizon,
for the foreground flees too fast
to focus on before it’s past.
My clear vision thrives on, soars on, flies on
the path winding up and beyond
these troubles, puddles and ponds
towards the unblinking, plan-blinding ocean.
There thoughts sail far from the harsh wail
of the quick-set worry and the false-step hurry
of these daily daunting travails.

Sharp obstacles, shrill pain whistles
dart up and strut their smart urgency,
proclaiming immediacy and plea
with emergency siren voices
for short-sighted choices to remedy
their burning-bright blights, their pyre in
library plight.

I can’t focus on their flutter or
contain their capricious clutter,
to flow with their fuzzy shows
just sits me down quick or hits me with motion sickness
and I have no time to slow or stop
much less cheap tricks or any quick fix
and I don’t mind smashing change
as long as I can find (or sense) a view, no matter if newly strange
of the crashing, slapdash yet steadfast
Way of the waves in the distance.

So sometimes I think that I’m not sure I want more words in this world;
Before I was born already so many whispering such truths,
Hurled into the air to seep into my ears listening while I slept even.
Some of them (sooth) were glistening even before they were uttered,
Others so vile that spears of betrayal falling from heaven felt no more fettered to evil…
And I believed them all.


So… so why say more?
I’ve said so much before, you know, not with my own voice I suppose,
It’s just that my perspective’s as slippery as prose, so… should I speak in poetry??
So… yesterday (so wintry, lonely, fractured!) yesterday before I entered the library
I moved the air with that soft touch of sweet vocality that you exhale
Like trying to rid yourself of insomnia’s unreality;
And when I returned from the seat of wide-awake reason - those words in there -
I was spurned by the silence that had heard din where I’d breathed,
had called foul and fallacy refusing to hold that sleepless yet dreamy seething
(and was probably right)
Even so!... a slight tremor of recognition, a glimmer of bereaved sentiment
Any solace even in flight, just so that it’s not gone… might have conceived
Some sort of strength to hold together those palms that stretch from bed to bed
Of those separated sleeping silent lovers (current confusion with past certainty),
Strength to hold the parallel (communicating yet unconnected) lines from collapsing
Under the duration of the distance of the friction of such geometric reason…

So, can I at least awake without the sound of diction and composition,
The work of others in my ears? It’s not that I haven’t found them wonders
In the right season, but they rarely connect rationally to my own dreams and fears…
So how do I know which will unite me and which split me asunder?

She held the bitter memories in her mouth, tonguing them and feeling their shape and texture. Their original clean-slicing edges eventually turned ragged and infectious, and the places that she probed more often, circling with bitter gall, changed shape and soon morphed into entirely different things. Were she to either swallow or spit them out, she could perhaps digest or simply rid herself of them. This would of course fail to feed her—but it would free her.

Having grown accustomed to the taste, though, she grew to relish the intensity of the flavor of gall and blood: so much stronger than normal fare. And so she could not resist the temptation to savor again and again.

Due to a screen fast during the last couple of weeks' vagabonding, I haven't posted for a while... so now here's my 3-in-1 post, with something for everyone!

Debido a un ayuno de pantallas durante las últimas semanas de (di)vagar, hace rato que no escribo... pues he aquí ahora 3 por 1, con algo para todos!

A cause d'être à jeune d'écrans pendant les dernières semaines de déambuler, ça fait un peu que je n’ai rien écrit… donc voici 3, avec quelque chose pour tous !

--

POEM 1:

Joy is the secret to resistance!

If that don’t make sense,
then check your balance
since we’re all on the fence
that stands tall tween
not two worlds
but billions.

So, when those with trillions
claim system-wide control,
tell you what to do with body and soul,
and act as if the fences they stole
surrounded, swallowed you whole…
laugh!

Hence, no matter what your stance
at least do a little dance
for the freedom on the fence!


POEM 2:

putain!
les machins souverains…

salaud!
c’est chaud a Baghdad…

egad!
these all-over fads…

oh shite!
billboard might says I’m not quite right…

carajo!
ando atrasado… y si me compro una máquina-atajo…?

joder!
el puto poder…


POEM 3:

In las dos languages errores
En both lenguas thought’s porous
El mezclaje
mestizaje
del mensaje
de lo que traje
del alma inconsciente
a la palma de mi mente
con calma de repente
de atrás y de frente
el compás me lleva
más allá de mi cueva
la visión es tan nueva
the versión que me mueva
like the sun
with her fusión of two into one
who knew I’d come undone
unstrung—no porque I’m unsung,
as hero or Nero—only cuz
I’m lonely in the throngs
I long for my own song
that all love and sing along
is this wrong?

I can’t explain
the happy pain
nor the anxious joy
nor the sappy ploy
that brought me to talk to you again
nor the way I use pencil instead of pen and then
erase halfway so old thoughts remain
no, I can’t explain
no, I don’t want to
for I can’t undo
the way I feel for you
and even if I could describe
all these things inside
you wouldn’t understand
and if you did I’d feel less a man
and if I did you’d be less a fan
of my manic plans
which escape you and me
yes, we like to feel like cheap brandy
placed on dry throat or right on skin
slipping down sweetly, evaporating swiftly,
o-so-softly lifting us to that feeling of fleeting

Desde la plaza de la justicia, Tribunales, donde se juzga lo que es justo y lo que no lo es, se ve el bastón de nacionalismo argentino, el Obelisco: sesenta y siete metros de sobriedad y certeza. Un tótem, cuyo escultor olvidó la presencia de los ancestros-dioses.

Hace una hora, mientras cruzaba la calle para entrar a la plaza, escuché los ecos de una quena amplificada—ya sabes, la flauta andina y millonaria hecha espiritualmente consumible para las masas. Un grupo de gente con pinta de ser de orígenes andinas estaba parado en la esquina en vestidos de nativos norteamericanos, con penacho de plumas y volantes de cuero. Se pusieron a tocar una versión instrumental easy-listening de Hotel California. Mi imaginación acompañó la música y mi risa interior con la letra:

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
…
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
They livin’ it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
…
Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
“Relax,” said the night man
"We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave!”

CHORUS:
oh, come on!
gimme that turn on!
play me that song
I been seeking all along
that begins strong, throbs in throngs
then hums with vibratious strides
that flow you, ebb you like tides,
that song that
then strums melodious webs
that catch you, stick you inside
then roll you, spin you and win you
over to the sweetly sad, meekly mad,
justly joyous side.

Oh, I dare not deride
the wide wake words glide
into consciousnesses’ topside,
but dive me deep; abstraction’s steep
sweeps of current drive abhorrent
grasping at false control
to weep out waves of worry into tsunamis
to plunge me, bury me to fathoms,
blurry me, bleary me, weary me,
murky me, working me outta patterns
of logical lockdown, quirking me inta
spattered spaces full of flowing traces
of thought following rhythm’s paces.

CHORUS

Oh, give me beauty’s graces!
like a first kiss, resistance’s fist,
or a great twist of fate,
I am so satiated in the act
then after the fact, self-control gone,
I sing, my desire intact:

CHORUS

Él divaga por la bulla, por las aceras,
imaginando que pronto se topará con alguien,
concibiendo del toparse como puntos suspensivos en la frase de su trayectoria
(que tiene un punto definitivo),
esperando que sea un alguien ya o pronto amado,
preguntándose si debe subir a taxi,
perdiendo conciencia de donde y quien está por el momento,
pasando a mendigos sin saludarles, ya que no le saludan a él,
pisando basura y grietas sin darse cuenta,
olvidando por que ha salido y que tenía que hacer.

Saluda con cejas alzadas a los pasajeros en colectivos,
y imagina como ellos deben de inventarle a él
en sus imaginaciones voraces (aunque no sean así)
en los momentos fugaces antes de que se van
los dos de vista y conciencia.

In the morning I awake
and fake twitching
just to get you itching
to kick me out of bed.
Said trick is all to get
you to roust me
with your sweet kick
and then douse me
with your love’s mock:

“Baby, you are the rock
upon which
I rest my head.”

In the day to kill tired
so wired I drink
an espresso and think
you want to hear my confess-o-
matic malarkey
and that you hark me
because you bark at me
with your crooked grin:

“Honey, you are the wind
beneath my
feathery skirts.”

At night when all light is done,
I reply:

“Darlin’, you are the one,
the sun
that blinds
the twinkle in my eye.“

I sleep with a dulled sword under my pillow
The soft raspings that it once made
While sharpened before battle
Whisper to me in the night
Call to be brought forth again
Call for blood
For the heads of my deep-set distraction: depression, despondence, dejection, diluted diffusion, demanding disillusion, diatribe-filled dissident distinction… damn, perhaps just a dream:

Like samurai of old I leap from utter mountainlakestillness in my bed, from flat to flightful feet in a moment of sweeping splendid smoothness where blankets part like the pelican wings at fluttery takeoff and blade emerges from feathered sheath with a steel hiss as air parts like waves from prow. Snickersnack high excaliber whipcrack of sword through air stale as spent sorries. My hands like light leaves flash the night without worry, caring only for cracks in the oxygen current where these parries and thrusts avert cracking functional and whole molecules and cause such turbulence as to rearrange the whole swirling ambiance, shake up all deep-set situation.

It might be high-noon bright on your skin
when in a flash and with a start
you realize it’s midnight in your heart—
I sure hope the stars will do their part.

You might be standing firmly alone
in sight of the next train out of town
then, at the first slight slip
into unconsciousness, the first
dozing dip into drifting off,
your whole world shifts
and your eyelids lift
to spouse and kids
bringing you home
with a flower for each
year you’ll never again spend on your own.

You may have a career
and on payday go out to have a beer
and drink to being in the clear
when with a sputter and a lurch,
say, you find yourself begging drunk in a gutter
just pray they pass not with a sickened shudder
but with a smile of sympathy to send them
on their sobered and newly steady way.

It might be high-noon bright on your skin
when in a flash and with a start
you realize it’s midnight in your heart—
I sure hope the stars will do their part.

I dropped a tear in the bucket
for every name that slipped my tongue
for every face that skipped my mind
for every friend whom I failed a prayer to find

Bearing the rising reservoir,
I irrigated my garden
of regret, assuming that salt
rendered earth infertile, turned seeds to stone
so this grim gardener would need not atone
for weeds fertilized with lax fault.

I dropped a tear in the bucket
listened to the resounding chime
nodded world-weary head in time
to the oscillating din of high-low echoes,
glanced a rueful grin at my dearest neglected
and whispered a steady, gleaming gaze to
my frail limits…

and then – unexpected –
clear-eyed vision graced me
with knees-in-earth-fertile humility

Duermo por la calle por el barrio por la ciudad
vivo con la gente que no calla con necesidad
y sus voces, vivos, en mi mente translucientes,
me dijeron que ha sido un placer – buena gente.
Me pregunto por qué algunos comen y otros sufren.
Mi asunto es cuidar a los que amo y que
amen.

what with this and that,
with what reason do you get from tit to tat?
the bric-a-brac left by the pell-mell
hustle-bustle will
at the drop of the cat in the hat muddle
your o-so-modern thinking muscle:

neon signs scream fat-faced lies of get quick, rich
cops in cars leer, forked tongue-n-cheeky, make you sit, sick.
can’t stagger no more from bureaucrat
to high-on-shooting-life fat cat;
that semi-automatic affidavit
won’t fast-track you through this one, jack,

this is the proverbial kick-back;
the gun you thought was just quick-cash
crashed your forehead, put the backlash-smack-down your veins,
you better go slack or you’ll crack in pain,
smashed apart by this slam-bangin-
tornado-track-stackeddeck madhouse,
gonna distort-contort-pervert
your every intention my friend
unless you contend, release the tension,
transform the teeming seeming chaos
with collective-necessity-compelled invention, and bend.

blend the booty-shakin’ bop you snatch
as it falls from fifty-fifth floor flats
with jackhammer concussions and cursing convulsions
that strike your harried strut
to provide the street-beat
you need to give your feet that hip hop-step
to propel you and repel that lock-stock-step,
forcefed-barrelvision, dregs-of-drugs, credit-card-incision
mentality and gift you that shift-shapin’, high-flyin’
hard-hittin’ awareness of reality.

what with this and that,
with what reason do we get from tit to tat?
the bric-a-brac left by the pell-mell
hustle-bustle will
at the drop of the cat in the hat muddle
your o-so-modern thinking muscle:

see so many acting like mass-paidoff clones
of apathetic stone, yet all feeling alone
in the shame-game, unable to stomach their own free will,
too comfortable to digest, let others kill-clean-process
in their name while they profess it ain’t complacency,
just another victim of modern-massmurder of agency?

well we’ll sing them strength with soul-imbued skill,
but won’t cut it with that same old pop-slop-swill,
gotta concoct new notion-potions and let ‘em glut on it
distill saintly-spirits to set their blood in motion:
harvest what soul-quaking stimulation scatters our path,
transcend it into life-shaking creation.

We climbed a mountain to grasp at sky,
But as we exalted in reaching, fingers outstretched,
A spirit told us to simply sit in awe:
Wait for Sun to kiss Earth
And be held by air on fire
Then be led by moon washing down the valley.
Why fight for a fistful for yourself
When all the world wants to hold you as its own?

On se casse
allant avec notre autosuffisance,
chacun un tour de Babel imprenable,
les langues dégueulasses de trop discuter malfaisance,

il faut se taire, et la seule manière qu’on sait se tomber,
c’est se convertir en sable
qui refuse devenir le verre,
qui nie la terre, fuyant pour se cacher
dans l’inconscience de l’océan,

il faut se brancher seule, pour bien concentrer
sur la connexion tranchée,
laissant les haut-parleurs communiquer
à nos frères et soeurs l’état de notre âme
fragmenté, les morceaux enflâmes,
électricité courant partout comme une lame:
on avait pensé que c’était sain, sous notre contrôle
dans la main jamais tremblante

mais c’est seulement, mente seule, maintenant,
qu’on sent, dans tous les sens, le fil au cou.

Mais les possibilités étincelantes!
On a des forums mondiaux où tous se trouvent
Partie d’une communauté d’information sainte;
Connaissances d’atrocités (partagé) émeuvent:
On bouge face à cette déluge épouvantable.

Réjouissance enfin: l’organisation d’action
Envoyant des messages d’espoir, idées, fables
D’un monde meilleur où la satisfaction vient
Pour apaiser les protestes des ancêtres
Tourmentés par des objets morts, des simples choses,
Qui n’ont jamais été vivants, mais nos prêtres
Politiques les ont consacrés, les imposent,
Les lèvent en haute technologie, la magie.

La vraie vie, c’est ce qu’on crée avec conscience
de l’harmonie que l’on augmente ou l’on blesse,
de la sagesse possible et du chemin nuisible
du danger toujours présent dans la puissante science
Qui souvent prie à la culte de l’Economie,
La Logique insulaire cruelle, l’ordre inhumain
des intérêts souverains.
Donc notre rythme doit reconnaître des liens plus subtils (soutiens)
entre ce qu’on considère comme le mien et le tien,
parce que n’importe ou l’on va, cela
demeure toujours vrai: on n’est jamais
séparé, encore lorsqu’on part
On est ensemble.

I beat my hand against asphalt
Thinking how I’d love to see
The road’s rough rigidity
Ripple from the force of me.

I don’t seek morse code
But rather primal beat,
To utilize city streets
To soothe ancestors’ feet
With rhythm reaching past hopes
Trapped in chain gangs’ worksongs
That shuffle modern shoes along.
Help me liberate the throngs
Desiring just memory
By drumming this deep plea
By drumming this deep plea
By drumming this deep plea
To know those underneath
Who built these roads for me.

Their road song is long silent
But the beat’s stuck in my head,
Wrapped so thickly around
My thoughts’ hard violence
That seeking rigid chaos
I find rippling rhythm instead.

estallidos del corazón en mente
latidos de bombas en ambiente
y por dentro y fuera dependencia
de creencia en el estado de ánimo.

paseo por las calles y canto -
expresión de me llanto
interior - pero choco con la gente
con la misma mente
con todo el ruido del mundo
que como fluido vagabundo
queda siempre en movimiento
y no me deja sólo con lo que siento:
que como viento me vuelo
al suelo del riachuelo
que es mi alma ya no calma:
el insomnio quema camas
y el llano está en llamas
mientras que la ciudad duerme.

“Current”

How many millions before me
have ridden this train on their way in
on this steel city vein?
Still, I feel none can ignore me
for even if I go under, subsumed in the bloody flow before I done
leaked my peace, I believe my remains will
be exhumed to show
what soft-speaking scars I’ve garnered
thus far along the rough and rowdy ride,
shimmering skin that lightly hints at my inner steel glinting that
steadied my stomach to abide this
that is
current.

“That metal matter,” they will say, “held his fear at bay while
he tried to smile and play with what he had to display.”
Or, even if
someone derides then hides what’s left of me beneath the surface,
the world won’t be bereft of me
because down in the mishmash motley of undercurrent
I’ll dissolve and dispatch into the swirl and swish
of wheelindeals and social spiels
fragments of my feelfully foolish substance
which will imbue this concoction,
scattered to prevent hijacking distraction
and ensure subconscious adoption;
unfulfilled substrata of intentions, to those opposed,
may seem fleeting when I’m no longer on top to give their sleepless seething repose
but no, they will find others to compose their renown
for once they fall, floating through the flow,
from my sad kind of conscious control to the ground,
only then will they lubricate with their slick hope and expedite with their quick calm
the path of those who heed the same call to arms.

So for now, let this vessel carry me on
I will play my part in this far-flung, scarring, scary rhythm
driven by a steel heart that daily feels the come and the go, that frailly heals
the wounds caused by the showy millions scrambling
in and out on the polluting shouting seething of the commuter flow
and that breathes like an iron lung for a comatose millennium.

How many billions before me
have ridden this train on their way in
on this steel city vein?
Still, I feel none can ignore me
for even if I go under, subsumed in the bloody flow before I done
leaked my peace, I believe my remains will
be exhumed to show
what soft-speaking scars I’ve garnered
thus far along the rough and rowdy ride,
shimmering skin that lightly hints at my inner steel glinting that
steadied my stomach to abide
this that is current.

El mismo movimiento que queda implícito, obvio pero al principio subconsciente cuando uno mira fijamente las tilas del piso, las regularidades de cuadrados encuadrados que envian el ojo por ahi y por allá, siguiendo líneas y formaciones arbritrarias pero reales, esta misma agitación quieta yace dinámicamente en tus ojos, esos relámpagos flojos que traversan el ondulando lago de calma de tu alma, esos abismos repletos, completos con sus posibilidades infinitas, donde creo que me caigo – o sería que vuelo? – y traigo conmigo el consuelo que el cielo y el suelo contienen ese mismo dinamismo y que este aire me pasa silbando como voz que me canta con melodias, ideas y sentimientos que me benedicen con el encanto permanente de este momento fluido.

ramblings to rummage through - for seekers of rickety rhapsody
and contemplators of crossroads with serpentine sheen...

sometimes I imagine myself alone in the jungle
barefoot (with callouses of course)
hunting hubris with sharply honed pizazz set and drawn on a bow of supple humility...
but then, avalanchic ephemerality crashes down
and I realize that even this aspiration of this clown
(like so many others, begun with giggles of glee
- hee hee look at me I've got it! I shout -
later turning out to be the beginnings of sinnings in the form of
me as frantic romantic
or dramatic fanatic,
or bombastic iconoclast...)
won't last
for fools fall fast when chasing their own shadow

so I invite others to join me in doing the catalyst twist!
for I, the Don of Anon, who take so long to get walking shoes on,
have finally donned my dancing boots and I plan to really move
if you'll join me (you know, if you like to groove), it'll be a hoot,
and since although I dunno which way to go,
shoot, to dance in place takes the greatest grace
and we won't have to chase this spot we got right here.