The door stands open to the
Grand Mesa, and I look in
on the kitchen table covered
in sweet potatoes and flies. This
is country living.
I drove a beat up Ford sky blue
pickup truck with my shirt off,
trailing cigarette smoke out the
window, past scarecrows, and
that was country living in
the fast lane.
Still I look at an Abbott's glass
bottle sprouting yard flowers
and an abstract wood carving on
the door of a cabinet that looks
like the eyes of death, and
I realize that this could be
anywhere. This could be a
downtown Frisco apartment
or a boarding house in
Berkeley.
No one else is up out of bed
yet, morning job fell through,
and we smoked all the weed
last night under the moon.
No one feels like getting
out of bed except I did,
listening to the whacked side of
Ummagumma. I realized that
strange music propagates
remembrance of last night's
dreams, high school again, some
sort of graduation. I had to
break free. The morning split my
shackles. The past slipped back to the
subconscious.
The morning is twenty-five
minutes from being gone.
Colorado morning rotating towards
afternoon, nothing more to say.
In the ghetto graveyard
the metallic jug band
blew media theme songs
as I passed on the cracked way,
and when the dusk came
I saw the electricity
flowing mad through the bus wires.
Sitting with the dark night keepers
on sidewalk curb
our fear separated us,
and I was only the observer,
too many dreams I have,
only the observer.
Then we raced to escape the city
because it was not our home.
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