to have been somebody's amazon warrior
been somebody's wide-eyed wild woman
have been somebody's sugar mama
have been somebody's Jackie Kerouac
been the cool side of their pillow.
Reborn in a Nashville hotel room
with the changing of the light
daylight savings
No longer naming myself,
trying to grow my face into masks
which don't quite fit.
Just sit on this cushion
and name bird noises
in the early morning
Scribble silly things in a notebook
and try not to take everything
so damn serious.
The world
needs its clowns,
its sad-eyed poets,
its piss-bottle men,
its lobotomy eyed suburb wives.
They're all lugging heavy hearts around.
On this big road
we are propelled at such high speeds
in chunks of mineral smelted and drawn
from deep inside this earth
fueled by burning hunks
of old dinosaurs
Stars of our little stories,
playing our little roles,
zipping along in metal bubbles.
We listen to voices
of those we've never met
over vast distances.
No comments:
Post a Comment