I’m not going to stop talking
until the shadow of the wheel
stops turning after the wheel does
I’m not going to stop talking
until the last panda goes negative
and black and white themselves reverse
I’m not going to stop talking
until the judgment pops its cork
and the fields of the sky bleach out
I’m not going to stop talking
until the islands become mobile
and flight from the flood is impossible

You ought to listen

I’m not going to give up my breath
until it is all but spent on futile gestures
and the last rattle of change fills my pockets
I’m not going to give up my hands
until their grip is gone and the ease of tension
breaks them open and they rest at my sides
I’m not going to give up my eyes
until light becomes too expensive to collect
and the darkness all around is all that’s free
I’m not going to give up my blood
until it’s all that’s left to wash the floor
and I need to clean up after the warriors are gone

Are you listening

I’m going to stand here with my mouth open
until somebody comes and drags me down
and my eyes fall from my astonished head
I’m going to be the hub of that slowing wheel
until the tread crumbles and the turning stops
and the axle bows and splits and is dropped in the sand
I’m going to champion and protest and call you out
until you can’t sit still without bleeding into your chair
and you slide to the ground relaxed and ready to sleep
I’m going to make the answers as loud as I can
until the ceiling caves into a wash of flowers
and the earth drowns in a haphazard funeral of song

If you’re listening and listening right
you’ll join our band of angel apes
You’ll evolve as fast as your ears can carry you
You see me up here now but soon with luck I’ll disappear
into a wall of pink and white and voice and action
I mean nothing without the listening
I hope I become extinct as soon as I possibly can
for what I do will only be worth doing
until your listening takes hold and soaks this dirty world
in sweet and attentive rain

Big Homie, they called him,
and yeah, he was big.  Around for years,
he got rounder through all of them,
and spoke more slowly over time
since it took the words longer to get out.

Big Homie used to balance on knife blades when he talked
and they’d watch to see how he didn’t fall. 
Now he’s bloody all the time.
His feet look like a cheese grater, red prints
on the barroom floors tell them where he’s been.

Big Homie used to eat lightbulbs like candy
and when he opened his mouth shone
like the Yukon at midnight in summer.
Lately he’s taken to speaking in the dark.
Lately he’s taken by how he can only talk in the dark.

Big Homie, they call him. Big Homie, whose light
and shadow aren’t on speaking terms anymore.
Big Homie, who one night knows he’ll get home
and the lamps will not light, the shadows will sink
into pure black, he’ll be alone, and they won’t care.