pulling at roots , some front yard of shoe culture grazing plastic cups , come from bar across town , a dj holds it to his bobbing head, a music corrupting a room of one moodless mod , a heap of long shadow match sticks to the street beneath curvy oaks , police any minute , sleep if you let me , i've no drugs for you cool kids stop eyeing me , don't care about your major , don't care which show you saw last , a camera could make this funny , but i'll be up the street by then to a car still warm , to no radio and a route home with eyes closed
for this is the dream of early morn :
from a pasture on a hill with a population call them countrymen we see the dots of planes before we hear the bombs / feel the ground shake and i love you do not leave my side the crowd says here they come oh my gods screams tripping over ourselves move like frightened herd of gazelle along the rim of this bowl of land no where to go but you cannot stop running in circles do not let go of my hand we will get through this
but we don't or you don't and it has been some time since then
and now in an overgrown backyard of used to be upscale township cold dirty slithering out of sight i find more of you near a stack of wood what has happened was it even a war did we even fight back no answers survival says shut up eat this watch so those people never see you and i see them and i run and you don't and you die
I must have missed this one before....The sense of panic in the dream bit. And I used to be the cool kid eyeing you for drugs. But you had them for me. Thanks again.
I liked this one in my belly.
Posted by: Hammer | Sunday, September 19, 2004 at 01:17 PM