I’ve got dials in my head, clicking like a winding down timer
While I'm finding a channel that isn’t just static
Or a faded children's primer, illegible and bleeding its ink
Like its supposed to be tragic or the ***** Dozen
Resting in the kitchen sink; reduced to vegetables after
An overtly silent war on the terror of omniscient pesticides.
We're the violent, thirsty poor and we're the weeds thrusting
Our roots through drunken misdeeds with the staying power
Of a half-decayed pursuit scrawled in the margins
Of a faded children's primer, illegible and bleeding its ink
Till it sprawls off the page into gin-fueled wishes
And rage till it's only me again, fighting dials and static,
Supposing that I can't be mended as I light another match
And wait for the commercials to end.