Turn up the Jewish folk music so that the absence of day doesn't hurt.
Opening credits of a girl buttoning up her blouse,
And the drums,
And the drums,
Filled with unending possibility,
In this lifetime we seem to feel always on the brink of some rise.
Some new turn,
Some fine end.
And when I say we, I mean myself and the Greek chorus camping out in the wrinkles of my left brains.
Which is why we are always open,
Always spread out like Kentucky wild fire,
Ready like a virgin to receive any diagnoses they might throw at my card house.
And standing at the register,
For eight hours and counting,
At the base of some multi platinum corporation,
Get an animal stab in the back of my neck,
And humid Irish black curtains flickering incessantly at the bottom halves of my open eyes,
And the walls are silent movies,
Grainy and hypocritical,
And at the same time I not only see silhouettes of myself slaving and scribing away at the Iowa's Writer's Workshop, but also, as clear as Dorothy; know the way in which I will end. Know that the weakest parts of my body are my cider house bronchial's, know that the breath has always been my hurdle, know it comes at night, know that one fine fine night I just wont see the morning dew, mourning bride, morning jog.
Drive by some bill board inviting you to some reception, but excluding you from the family only ceremony, wonder just how narrow the opening will push, until it deconstructs us all to the Highlands of Glen Gary, and we find ourselves lost on a planet where all the women grow up not to bake pies, but to fill pies, all of their heart and liver pressed and flaked into a hate crimed filo dough "surprise".
But hark, young Mac Donald spry chil', at the bottom of this one sided Titus; sweet sweet butter of IN LAW, baked into the crust, tasting holy, next to sinful, next to himself, for the wounded. Back again.
And in the prime time of eleven,
I got an outline fare and square,
See, I have a chorus bright and fine,
Skin and Toast