Look Over Your Shoulder

Look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
Satan’s son come to trip my feet
Look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
Satan’s son wants to lock me up
Drain my will, make me numb
So I look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
Why you boys have to act so bad
More harm done by your hand
Temptation consumes your soul
And you carry a shotgun for satan’s goals

Come on and lift your eyes
Meet your demons
Cut them down to size
They are just a piece of you
Don’t be scared
Don’t be a fool

Look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
Satan’s son come to trip my feet
Look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
Satan’s son wants to lock me up
Use up my will and make me numb
So I look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
The master magician misdirects your eyes
Order out of chaos becomes the cry
But whose order and whose plan I say
From God’s uncharted Path you stray

But when you lay in bed
At the end of your life
Your thoughts will be full
Of your arranged strife

And in this hell you will scream and scrape
For just a lick of water from your former slaves
But here let’s show you the truth,
Down here authority don’t have much use

So I’ll look over my shoulder
Look over my shoulder
for you

Magical Dryad

I’ve posted this picture before, here is an explanation of it.

This statue has been close to my heart. In my young, early days at U.C. Berkeley I was shown this statue by a homeless couple. Well, to be fair they’d wandered in and out of homelessness but had been a steadfast bulwark of Telegraph Ave. society. They weren’t a “couple” in a traditional sense but were a Mother and Son duo, living with the SSI check the son received for a previous bout of cancer. Who knows how much of their story was true, all I know is that they weren’t ones to mess with. “C” was missing her front teeth and her son, also a “C,” was a bohemian writer trying to flirt with all the ladies. At any rate, Momma “C” showed me this little statue behind some foliage near the Faculty Lodge. I had never noticed it due to it’s concealed locale. “C” called it a dryad and left little offerings of incense, flowers, or candles everytime she visited. She encouraged me to do the same thing. Over the years, leaving and coming back, I noticed that maintenance must have done a better job at cleaning up, either that or because “C” was no longer in the area. The hidden dryad statue no longer has disciples, though she will always be beautiful, and every so often, when I find myself in the area I’ll still place a flower in a nook of her arm…

Poem for Heredity

There’s a tree planted years ago.
A seed sown when progenitors scattered,
stretching across winds
with optimism on their lips.

Some found a furrow for their plow,
a bridegroom in a far off land.
And maturity ebbed and flowed
through an era–

Progenitors beget progenitors
and eternity of rearing and teaching
lengthened towards
an undetermined twilight,

a fragment of this chain clusters snugly.
The gift of bygone forbears endlessly
opened by new parents,
and the chain sustains.

The gently curving ratio, golden even in unscientific dreams.