Words.
Words in a herd.
A herd of small words that beg to be heard.
Sound.
Sounds from the ground.
An unnoticed sound of those left in the ground.
Dead.
Dead in the bed.
A young man who died while asleep in his bed.
Dream.
Dream til the scream.
A beautiful dream that ends with a scream.
Shout.
Shout to get out.
You cry and you shout and you beg to get out.
Free.
Free absentee.
The unoccupied cell of a freed absentee.
Gone.
Gone is the pawn.
The man that is gone is no longer your pawn.
Game.
Game full of blame.
A game between two where we both share the blame.
Guilt.
Guilt that is built.
The engineered guilt of those that God built.
Make.
Make it with hate.
All that you make inherits your hate.
Love.
Love's not enough.
When the world goes to hell love will not be enough.

I'm a little disturbed by the implications
of dreamcatchers in cars.
Are we that prone to fall asleep
behind the wheel?
Are we that scared of our nightmares?
If life is a dream
does a person who dies near a dreamcatcher
get caught,
a fly in a web,
in the dreamcatcher and wait to be devoured
by the nightmares inside.

Crushed under the dust
riding thick in the air.
Hands and knees to choke
and cough on a heavy
*** of burning oxygen.
In the valley
where all is a blown out
shade of sepia green,
you're reduced to a mollusk
crawling in your clothing,
clawing at the dirt,
calling, shouting,
eyes defeated,
"Someone turn that ******* light off before I go blind!"

The horse pulling this bandwagon has been beaten to death.

The rain is falling on our town
and you're out in the rain,
singing at the thunder
and dancing through your pain.
I stay inside to lick my wounds
and sober up in bed.
I play my guitar bitterly
and sing inside instead.
The patter of the rain drops,
the patter of your feet,
the discord at my fingertips,
your chirping in the street.
Larks with hearts like broken wings,
one is you and one is me.
All larks learn to love to sing,
but not all larks are free.

Someone who looks so happy
in a big sunny field actually could think big,
could have anything, could have
riches, power, anything.
To be stupid, to be happy
in a big sunny field.
Actually, it's hard to argue with that.
Pretend you've got that now.
Could you wish for anything?
If you had a big sunny field to be in,
would you think anything,
riches, power, ANYthing,
actually looks so big
in the big sunny field you've got?

Dear Houston,
does the waterbug
skittering
at the bottom of the pond,
searching
for a meal or a lay,
think that the waterlogged cardboard box
floating
saggy on the surface
is a small planet or a constellation?
Is the plastic grocery bag an Oort Cloud?
When the waterbug rolls
helpless
in underwater currents
that she can't understand, is the
swirling dust, and feathers, and leaves,
a whirling Milky Way
to her?
Is the audible rumbling of the highway the voice of the universe?