If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold
They’d be present in the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes.
This friendship across species — a Buddhist mantra –
Rocks me like a good old boy, befriends me like the rain.
He’ll be with me when the gates fly open — his love will never end.
Seek out the depths, the shaman-spirits that will be:
Seen, glimpsingly, at the Paiut Wovoka ghost dance;
Drive away every morsel of this dirty money-grabbing life
This massacre of everything that be wild, wilful, wondrous, free.
Our artfulness creates resistance to the age of the machine
To the algorithms that manipulate us behind the scenes
In this stinking, respectable world of the machine we must resurrect
The unseen perspicacity and prescience that was once the common currency
Of the most illiterate, boorish, free-born Saxon.