If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold
I’d roll them up into the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes
I’d pat him and stroke him and tell him unashamedly how
This friendship across species was the best that man could get.
He’d tell me I was some kind of Buddhist — he’s cantankerous and pithy 
that way. So rock me like a good old boy, befriend me like the wind, 
You’ll be with me when the gates fly open and death walks in. 
You taught me never to flee the majesty of the shaman-spirit that will be.
The Paiut Wovoka ghost dance will drive away every morsel 
of this dirty money-grabbing, respectable massacre of everything that be wild, everything that be wilful, everything that be wondrous, everything that be free.
Your artfulness helped me to create resistance to this age of the machine
Now, there is no worth in the unseen.
perspicacity and prescience that was once the common currency of the most illiterate, boorish Saxon.

?si=iEUFrdR8LTNTicQf