There is a mile of wicked in the world. All you have to do is dial it up. It comes at you from all directions. I try to talk about the birds and the river. Sometimes the sky. I tell stories, but I always stop before things get really fucked up. It’s all designed to keep me from the wicked.
Same with the pictures. They’re not real. Sure the river can take your life along with the bears. Sometimes I wish they’d come my way.
To watch children die. Falling off boats or being led away. How the fuck do we let this happen?
The ridges need walking. The sun comes up, sometimes in a blaze, other times without cheer.
I can’t help. I can only fight. Give me someone to fight.
Give me a fight.