On a Saturday

Mankind lives in a fog

Struggling forward through wisps of contested memory

Surrounded with our own chaos

And enforced restless passions

(The celebration of them the mere forgotten beginning of our disease)

Instead of mining the needed gems from the images and stories of the past

We lament for the savage things

that grace today has allowed us to miss

And are told by those approved

what happened and what it means to us now

Apparently, some of us recall the things of former lives

Of former victories and pleasures and madness gloried

And sadly somehow, some of us begin again

And apparently also, there seems to be a war over such things:

Who remembers what, and why

And so, our grope through the fog

Seems ill-illumined

by the light of those who are often cruel and untrustworthy

Archives and histories disappear intentionally (it took me time to see)

Or are never there, or tainted from the start

And it seems for the benefit

Of questionable interests

Who apparently have things to hide

Secrets to carry forward through the fog

Study and learning seem encouraged only within limits

Limits of design and purpose of others

Or restless consensus at best

Others who seem to desire only the lesser things

our physical bodies may provide,

Our continued ignorant innocence

Over some perceived threat our intellects may pose otherwise

People are forever paraded through inflamed routine

pawned off always as somehow good

Their own self-destruction is somehow required

Until that itself becomes the dance of all

A collective dances through a thickening fog

Our own insane dances swirl around and around on aimlessly on

Reaching crescendos of inhuman fury

And diminishing into retreats of mere irritating routine

Masquerading as tradition, profession and necessity

Resisting any creative thought that may cure them

And free us from them

And still, forever,

The idea that life goes on

Is suppressed and guarded and unspoken

Or hinted at, at best

That we may take things with us to other lives

Beyond our painful memories

Seems never much a thing of any intelligent judgment:

What is wise or foolish baggage

On this misty dimly-lit journey

But mostly bound by those restless passions

Restless passions, restless passions, restless passions

The train blows it’s horn, in the night

again and again and then some more

A wailing blast heard for miles and miles

The train wakes the dogs who bark for hours at each other

And wake the people, who wish they didn’t have to get out of bed

To go sell the dog food

Carried on the trains in the night