stumbled upon this tonight:

"THERE'S ROOM IN THIS BOAT FOR YOU. That day the storm wakes him. Rumble of boots on the stairs and riot clang of sticks against shields fades with his dreams. Uneasy, blinking at the darkness, only the thunder rolling in, the first fat drops against the window. Ten, fifteen minutes go by. Something is wrong, some long-gone thing is missing. Suddenly he's afraid. He thinks, time is winning. Anvil-topped cloudcover on the mean and naked city, water high in the gutters and rising higher. No eyes lift to meet his. Androids? Machines made of expropriated bodies by order of the lunatics enthroned in the palaces of fascism? Placid faces ready to split and reveal maniac souls instructed by interstellar transmissions to slit his throat and eat his nose. This is a hole as deep as the Andes are high. He half expects the alleys to disgorge squads of boy soldiers in tattered party dresses and drugstore Halloween masks. A smell under the city stench like the coming of winter under the autumn breeze, faint but sharp and electric. A thin buzz in the ears, his mouth dries out, there's a metallic fuzz on his teeth. It's started, and today he knows. He swings between urgency at the thought of the pit opening up and swallowing everything and elation, euphoria, and the trip leaves him lightheaded. He worries over the things inside him that would crumble to dust if brought into the light. One more long day down, stepping out into the shadow of the skyscraper where he works. A man camped out in a doorway--bedroll, backpack, battered boombox. Hand out, or a cap, or a cup, he doesn't look just tosses in a buck. "Need new nine volts." The bum pats the radio. Blown speakers, sounds fuzzy and thin. Another dollar and the bum shrugs. "I was just passing through," he says. "You know." It bursts from the radio like a rider breaking the treeline in the distance, a lone voice and guitar, a messenger with a dispatch from the hours before the flood. Full, alive, angry, urgent, plunging deep and pulling up out of despair on the wing of joyous beautiful moments. This is a missive from a pilgrim like you, no return address or postmark, unsigned. It is a call to arms, a yell from the swamp, an echo of the dreamtime. It is a message from the resistance that will turn Caesar's guts cold-- Their game is rigged, it sings, but you cannot lose if you will not play. The devil doesn't want us to know, but we'll walk in the garden again. You are foul, but split you open and roses spill out. They are many, it sings, but in the end it only takes one. Listen. Fight. Dance like you got no bones. The sun will die but one fire will burn beyond time. There's still Love at the end of the world."
-- Ray Kranjcec

Check it: http://www.myspace.com/samrobertsband