Tonight we face our frantic god. Hillbilly period over. Period. Only backfire prevents
\nsoaring. The inevitable machine of want. Waves of personnel, dreaming beaches.
\nTriumvirate lighting and smoke deodorant. Cooking with gas. The lawn on loan.
\nBanjo on the brine. Tumbling from the sky comes another basement story. Sick feet
\ndown and rising. Here an industrial guitar takes possession of the voice. Crestfallen.
\n(cut one)
\nWe stand on clouds, tending our rigid definition of sky. Lonely is the bird averse to eggs.
\nWe ride the downhill grain, pretending toward art. Affection is the second step toward
\nnature. Naturally, we send our best pinch hitter up there and he belts it on the roof.
\nAll is lost. Our lives are sold as advertising, bones torn out for furniture.
\nShirley, Goodness and Marcy are drawing straws for the remains. This powder must be.
\n(the soul)
\nWe chew cud at the post office, spit blood at the tax museum. Four stars fall
\nout and shoot right through our eyes. We’re back "in the fold," grown old,
\nand farmed out for pleasure. Too late for hobo life, too early for mourning tea.
\nThe pasts we have wasted now surround us. Our profile’s on the thirteen
\ndollar bill. Try dancing in elevators for misdirection. Paralyzing anxiety beckons.<\/p>\n
Tonight the weeds will finally take control. Central planning will realize
\nthe ghost it fashioned. And we will be standing in wetsuits on mountains,
\nwaiting for the ocean of regret. Singing songs to old teachers and fictional pals.
\nRemembering the horse that got us to the path that got us to the end zone.
\nWe must watch as the battle floats upward, enveloping all notion of good haven.<\/p>\n
We pledge ourselves to grandpa’s bomb. The fury of the vessel intrigues our senses.
\nDance this weigh. Tons of love. The heretic’s heredity. Watch someone watching the skies.
\nSomewhere. In the archive is the essence of an old war. We gear up for retreat.
\nTiptoe through a smoking land. The bull loves the blood. More satanic babies buzz
\nthe vatican. The pope is pasted with advertisements. His cherry blossom skirt reveals
\nold thigh. We make him eat nutmeg and recite the blues. In big clown shoes and pasties.
\nHe’s wasted on the scent of Christ and we’re feeding him clues. Nothing stops this fear.<\/p>\n
On the road to something better, led by saints and stock assassins. Skipping stone
\nwith razor edges. We elevate the mean. Without meaning. We escalate and
\nexpectations fall. Bags of garbage, crack and money are exchanged for body bags.
\nWe are a bagged nation, boxed in by our frustration. Gestating clean designer death.
\nWe dance wildly by the grave, waving coupons and pointing away. Not today.
\nOur hosts have bled us dry and tossed us in the combat ring. Sycophantic
\ncalibrated expedited atrocities. Monstrosities and their machines. We’ve the means.<\/p>\n
Foil of Camelot. Discarded packs of spoontime filler. We are lashed to the massed
\nhysteria. Chewing the fat news. Pulling away. Conditioned to the constant sound
\nof sirens and the squealing of the muse. In black shoes. We planned to fight the power,
\nbut the power went away. The story awry. We can only lionize the pain. Rock candy rain.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"