.Asleep and unknown,fat brushed ash adheres toblind, bleating teeth;as the hovering world hangs-the mighty boats rise and fallwith the longing tide.Mountains rise with the respectto music, while electrical nightmarescelebrate light stained forgiveness,where hard, heavy tongues bindan entire generation. The tappingsoul forest's eternal beat, heavilywooded with pine and cedar,chips away at the teenager's stonedeyes. Bus stops stand like tombstonesfor those standing alone, runs its' icy fingersup and down the neck of perfect strangers;sending one long chilllike the spines of a sea urchin.Now! Psychotherapy is the new world's one hour sport.So, there's a broken creation of transparent things,plastic things, opaque things; and your precious Xanax tabs. My blackened bus lungs long to sing sailor songs of skyscrapers and simple melodies of old. With your rolled-up sleeves burning, you take note of the poor antstender feet as they carry their own dead off ofthe blistered path, where your neighbors perfectthe art of growing appleswithout trees, which has nothing to do with dying.