can you feel it?

barbarians.
bearded babblers.
brutal battle-hardened bier-burning bashers.
the last bastion of burly busy-businessmen...
a restart button, with wild animal instincts.
it's always the same, over and over.
ghost rings, smoke rings, concentric overlapping circles,
repetitive ripples of spirit and memory.
y'know the cycle, yeah?
sh!t gets 'tarded,
worthy warriors burn it all down.
***********
tourism, on both sides of the trip, lets ninjas know what's up.
whether suffering the suburban window-shoppers up here,
or hanging out in the gridded-out griddle of whatever big or small city,
one can't help but notice the unfortunate truth:
civilization is only as civilized as it's least sophisticated citizens.
it's a two-fold problem, really.
the fat american sports-fan F*-tards, littering and loitering and lingering,
not to mention reproducing at a top-40 chart-climbing rate,
are expectant of easier, suckier, lamer convenience and distraction.
that makes every concentration of culture and community
surrounded by a swamp of suckling suburban spurgeblasters.
and what's even more damaging?
warrior poets.
huh?
yep.
because we know the difference,
between old bustedness, and new hottness, and half-measures, as well-
and disdain the company of the fat masses of meat-loving man-mountains,
AND the green-friendly delusional make-a-difference D-biscuits alike.
because both sets of waterbabies aren't livin' that real sh!t.
the mainstream is full of A*holes,
and most cityfolk agree with us on that, at least...
but good restaurants and music scenes aren't enough of a reason to
shutter away from what's really going on.
as long as berserker barbarian battle-beasts are around,
all city-livin', left-leaning, do-gooder sauce-suckers are proper F*ed.
that's word.
all the priuses and organic fruitslappin' co-ops in every sh!tty city
won't negate the savage stormswept gypsy cataclysm.
barbarians.
at the gates, an' that.
the imminent full-moon's bringing out the really real ninjas-
howling hard-style children of nature, y'all.
furious, inflammable, ferocious, and fearless.
fortune favors the bold, mutha-lickas.
every time the educated and the ignorant get too complacent,
it is the duty of the borderland barbarians to show up, blow up,
and wreck all the sad, soda-pantsed sh!t-salad that gets mistaken
for the good stuff.
the socks and sandals, yoga-stretchin',
canvas-grocery-bag-types can't compete.
neither can the sweatpantsed and team-spirited flat-screen softballers.
wild animals are the order of the day,
and wilder animals rule the nights.
full moon werewolfen polarity-charging tidal wave thunder.
no voting, no recycling, no continuing education can shore up the walls.
nor can fantasy football, dunkin' donuts, nor a sweet car, nor hair gel.
bearded weirdies and mountain men, y'all.
that's what's up.
every time.
-
in the meantime.
it's a full moon eve,
in the woodsly goodness,
at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
the hair-raising hot fire howling begins at sunset.
the biers are piled high,
the boughs are broken and the fuel is prepared.
long nights, kids.
waxing, an' that.
bigger, better, more;
never quiet, never soft.....