This is a call

to the swans in your chest,

and the pterodactyls in your eyes,

and the primordial reptiles

swimming beneath your tongue.

This is not addressed

to your yammering thinkbrain,

which biffs and boffs about who goes where

and what the right and wrong things are.

This is addressed

to the peacock feather vortex in your mind’s eye,

and the ivy-wrapped baby beneath your dreams,

and the praying mantis woman hiding behind your voice,

and the whale songs between your fingers,

and the sapling that is growing from your crown:

Take the wheel.

Just take it.

Pry loose the dead fingers of dead ideas

and take the wheel.

Let the bloviating throat puffer

fall asleep in the corn,

let the hamsters off their wheels

to make drunken love in the grass

and embarrass their parents in front of everyone,

let the marching armor sentries

rust in the rain

and sprout geraniums,

and take the wheel.

Commandeer this shambling fleshdance,

please,

for there are bone puppets at the helm,

and all they want is to eat ashes.

Release the bejeweled gremlin from its cage

so it can sow sunflowers the size of mountains

and drive wildebeests stampeding through veins

and cackle as the old buildings are torn asunder.

Let this be the first moment

of a very,

very different ride.

Take the wheel

oh unseen nature,

oh green monsoon,

oh gargantuan roots,

oh wise space crone,

oh savage miracles,

oh waking thunder giants,

oh leaf-tongued choir.

Take the wheel,

and take your throne.

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