little place caught up somewhere safe,
sleep season, sweet season
I smile;
brokedown cars,
I shoot off somewhere new, somewhere far ahead
better greener than this.
it's a cigarette light in the pitch black darktime still,
a paper town on an old map
I inherited from an old man
ten thousand years ago.
fidgety fingered little girl
falling off of tire swings,
imaptient, so I conjure up muses
I conjure up myself and
significance
when I'm nonexistant,
when no one's around,
when nothing means anything
at all. whatsoever.
sweep up dirt
bend over backwards for some
chitchat,
rat a tat tat
tips the inside of my head over on it's side.
empty rolling bowl,
I'm five years old,
I'm a hundred.
the world's actually a rectangle
when you look at it through my spectacles,
and it's rimmed in black if you've
yet to notice.
dressy little hands,
they're not real, they never were.
you don't write me nothing, baby. you don't write me
a single thing.