Friday, November 8, 2013

She's got a handle on it

She can see in
merged realities
all spectrum colors
rising like tides on
phantom shores,

I dangle my feet over
america's great canyon
a lifetime ago
thinking of her
somewhere in space
I can bend the misunderstanding
that's been forcing us apart,
that's been forced upon us,

somewhen we've been
able to escape this fate

a pencil and paper is
older than the typewriter,
dig? you have a false view of
the past, you are ignorant of
the scene--

She refuses
the answers we've built
returns the boxes that
are shipped out to
every house on every block
waiting out
the strong arm knocking at her door,
black boots kicking it in,
turned out in the night
herded to the sleeping train,
another number for the record books
another mind on the grill.

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