If Savagery Meant an Illicit Passion

where are their lives?
The ones that mattered
The ones like you, or I?
Where are the people that dried their own clothes
The ones that doubted if God existed
Where are the ones whose legs ached after work
The ones that felt they wasted their off hours watching television
Where is everyone that felt they needed a because
For doing anything and everything, because they wondered
And felt a sinner for doing anything and everything they liked
When those very things were completely acceptable to begin with
And those self-same things were done with our own time and places.
I wonder if there is something extraordinary about the ordinary
civilization=ordinary=domestication-backbiting-fighting-laissez-faire
Or maybe that's ordinarily normal
The kiss of dreams and passion possessing
The very bribe of existence for youth lost
An exchange of savagery for life itself
Trading in being supper for a nice warm coat
And so, we become animal, we become cat or squirrel or chickadeedeedee
Showing how it's done By cleaning or packing or surviving winter ourselves
But if I had a billion dollars?
I'd show them how to float like algae all pelagic and like.

But, instead I'm stuck in my Jesus christ pose.