|There are cigarettes in bottles that are scattered through the house. From all the time we’ve spent alone or bored staring at the couch. And the smoke perfume of solitude, swirls, circles like a ghost. It whispers things like go to bed, or figure out the rules. And you find yourself in hallways leading north but headed south. ….
So the guitar sings a love song for a girl you’ve never met. Inspired by the ones you loved and swore not to forget. It’s a lullaby, a compost dry heave leaping from the air. And the books all listen well, but they don’t care.
Its a carapace, a fallen glass that bounces on the ground. Only chipping to a small degree and laughs. I can see you in the future but for now, you’re not a-round. I will wait, I will wait, till you are found. …
There’s a stroller bent and angled on the roadside far from me. Representing all the children born to be all they can be. Every person here’s a boat that sails from sea to shining sea. Don’t fix your sails to tight, and dontcha give a bum money. They say God can be your anchor, but I lost mine long ago. Now I travel like a fire in the snow.
Books are both the worst defense, and best at times like these. Here to comfort you, and guide you, keep you up when you need sleep. The phonograph plays, but it won’t keep a stea-dy beat. So you try to speed things up, and then you try to slow them down. You are asking for a life that’s not so organized.
Its a carapace, a fallen glass that bounces on the ground. Only chipping to a small degree then laughs. I can see you in the future, but for now, you’re not a-round. I will wait, I will wait, till you are found.