A boy I knew when I was a kid was so skinny we called him “handrail” . His tattered clothes fell around him like shadows at a funeral and no one ever saw him in the cafeteria, except on Fridays with his flop-over and his raw potato in an oily paper sack where he’d savor every little bite as if the executioner waited with his ax. I want to write an end of hunger love song where all the high note’s are composed of delicious meats to coat the hungry dreams and low notes are made of half eaten happy-meals, but not emptiness, and with endless verses carved from full tummies of sleep! I have heard many other songs in yesterday’s mist shattering truth down like dried bones and clinched fist, a silent breaking, minds masked in private pain, man’s own howling and craving and loss, his bane. So please take note of the end of hunger love song and elevate it’s joy to an immeasurable tallness, lift starvation beyond the tapering gaze, our bones lay gently down, near enough to cuddle with.
(The Weaver's Song)