We are soft souls blown
‘round with everything,
we are sifted sands
and treated grasses.
We plug ourselves
into cars and wait for destinations;
And still:
Violins ******* make people cry
(the tremolo stings your spine into shivers)
And that gives me something
you might call hope
for my age-bracket.
This has been somewhat of
a spiritual undertaking for me.
The roads of the interstate carry me
out of my reality
and into another consciousness.
Extended driving (the heavy tremolando).
I'm blue-glassed eyes and
I am ultraviolet light
and I open the car window
to exhale a lung of smoke
into the dustbowl.
Well, hell;
It's California.