Gold Dust on the Brain

Inside my brain there’s a cavernous space with a bump growing from a rocky blow, acquired in the span of an adventure

Inside my brain there’s mass consumption with wet shoes and socks from salty seas

Inside my brain there is an afro growing on a rock, struggling in the yellow pollution

Inside my brain there is world water that cuts back quartz flake sand and frogs in the little brook that kept croaking at the oddest times, entirely nutty as a fruitcake

Inside my brain there’s gold dust on the bottom of our feet, while the chariot awaits and Our Lady watches above and the waters laugh

Inside my brain there is 400 miles, your feet would press a hundred flowers, our stuff just covering the ground, clothes off and everyone is trying to live with what they got.

Gold Dust on the Brain VERSION 2

Inside my brain there’s a cavernous space with a bump growing from a rocky blow, acquired in the span of an adventure

There is a brief thought that this could be my last adventure

or that this moment may have never occurred

Worry—fear—the pixie dust could be rubbing off and my ability to fly failing,

but then I look around me

There is an afro growing on a rock, struggling in the yellow pollution

Just a little bit further and it’s there, it just has to avoid the vomit foam

There’s mass consumption with wet shoes and socks from salty seas,

rocks that reach for the stars

and the ocean ebbing away caves that are waiting for their future explorers

There is world water that cuts back quartz flake sand

and frogs in the little brook that keep croaking at the oddest times

Looking around, I make a decision

As long as the sun shines then blinks and shines again, I am satisfied.

Adventures here and there, the small moments

Each tiny frog that speaks up, each smash of a wave, each step on the sand

We wander and don’t even realize there’s gold dust on the bottom of our feet

Each second,

the chariot awaits,

Our Lady watches above,

and the waters laugh at our stupid worries

Inside my brain 400 miles stretch into a curving, endless path through the wise trees, the silent meadows and the reflecting mountains

Walking this, your feet would press a hundred flowers,

Our stuff just covering the ground,

clothes off,

while everyone is trying to live with what they got.