chia pet of soul
Spread the seeds on my head and I'll growbecause I have become the chia pet of soul.
And I don't know if anybody else knows,
but I've got sparks flying out of my head
and every time I try to go to bed they appear
steering me in the directions that only fire could take me.
But I come from the water, and my body is fluidly falling
and I'm calling myself to be risen again amongst thousands
of dying weeds that crumple under the souls of my shoes.
I was brought up on the blues.
Huh: A white girl brought up on the blues.
John Lee Hooker and Etta James sing me to sleep
and my mind seeps with their soul.
By remembering what they have told me through music, I'm digging a hole through the concrete of what we're supposed to be listening to.
I'm so sick of music being categorized into races and sexes as if we had to file into the right lines to appreciate the voice of another person.
I'm zooming away from the bullshit design and the sign of the times telling me who to believe and how to perceive the words of those "black rappers" or those "lesbian folk singers". This is the mentality that all we see is all we ever can be in the organized tactics of distraction.
My brain is as clean as it's ever been since I started redirecting my ears and eyes to cultures that are not supposed to be my own,
yet they have grown from the soil on which we all stand.
And the soil comes to drill me through creation:
bulldozers and steel-nosed cranes come rushing
through my cranium, thoughts muster and claim me.
Up the streets I have walked and these sounds I have talked as I watch so many around us forget about the soil beneath them.
But we can render these facts around us
and belittle systems that drive us to live in those lives.
I chose to throw time to the wind and create my own system of expression that does not depend on staggering and scattering myself into the rows of symmetrical fields.
Winding out into a spiral, rooted beliefs may need to take heed to the wind as well.
Spread the seeds on my head and I'll grow
because I have become the chia pet of soul.
Just as the wind will blow our thoughts for harvest,
whether or not we agree,
we'll have our creations to gather, we'll lather ourselves in the creation of art and grow like fruitful vines that spread apart the notions of spaded hate and planted ignorance.
Regardless of where we start this:
spread the seeds.
