In eyes of golden seeming fortune,
where waterfalls fall awkward rain-like
with sharp rocks and cemented over arms,
engulfed:
windows of the soul,
let the light and rain inside,
let the dark and insane inside.
Shut the back door and looked for wells of water, and silver
in the mouths of busy streets and monopolized peninsulas.
And just left, still fresh and new,
spending money on fast food and cigarettes,
not conscious, not sane, no eyes of gold,
no eye’s of gold.
Steep four cylinder hills, ****** brakes, and surprising ditch deer,
where and wild with delicate sea grass
and endless pie in the sky.
It is I who is bewildered with water beads running down the brain,
and a great audience before,
there to watch the play that's Americas greatest  invention
the end in end, hand in hand
with no remarkable story told,
and no eyes of gold.