Ghost Dance - The Bright Light Social Hour

A glowing dawn of crowded eyes

Each a screaming pulsar

Wounded knees, dance 'til clean

The needles in the ghost

Grit, sand, silica

Demand perfect porcelain

Distant glimmers' ancient dust

Begs the flesh to rise

Cut like knives through black exhaust

A terror in full blossom

Whitewash dreams, blowing steam

We have not arrived

Grit, sand, silica

Ground to dense perfection

On the outskirts of consciousness

Together deep inside