If I wrote to you and not know what to say
Baby, I'm gonna set it all straight
And if I felt a tune and not know what to play
Well, maybe to you I sound the same

I haven’t at all made an attempt to be with you
And you had nothing at all to give, why me, the fool

Well maybe to you, I’m not able to make a change
Out of the blue, here to wash the other colors away
What would I do if the music weren’t made
Down/out of use, you sing to make a trade

I haven’t at all made an attempt to be with you
And you had nothing at all to give, why me, the fool

When I write to you and know just what to say
Sonny, that will be the day
But when I feel that two of us can imitate
Then that’s one of us we can make

Midnight at the Matrix.
Only in poetry music, ***.
Sometimes there's a way out.

And a dreamland in the inbetween.
Seeing things you haven't seen.
But there are some boundaries.

There are little worlds behind them.
You can see them but you can't go there yet.
And creatures walking around you ignoring you.
This world is not yet yours.

Midnight at the matrix.
Trying to get ready to relax.
Finishing your last phone call.

You both broke down on the other side of the line.
Both vacuum ****** and you can't get through the end of the bowl.
Cause there's no end at all.
No end in a vacuum bowl.

Still not completely ****** in the same way.
But soon you'll be ****** together in the same old bowl.
One of you just came out of war, the other out of hell.
Not much difference, still a world of a difference.

One is still and the other always ill.
Cause being ****** in a bowl where everything is too much makes you never relax...
Being ****** in a bowl after a war is a calm in the eye of a storm.
An eye of glass....

Midnight at the Matrix.
Only in poetry music, ***.
Sometimes there's a way out.

A piece
of a ouija board
sits in the Los Angeles River
as the inky crows squawk nearby

I pace
along this polluted trickle
of a river
as the crows flutter by

Apace
a runner darts near
without his mask
I shudder

Ashes
ashes
we all
fall down

Most of the brine has got to boil away
Most of the air has got to choke you
Most of June I spent in jail again
I don't mean jail, exactly
Up in the pine tree
Red squirrel looking down at me

I am losing control of the language again
I am losing control of the language again

Most of the things I used to hold onto
Most of the things I used to say to you
Most of the ways I knew around the local roads
Are disappearing daily
High in the cottonwood
You were looking down at me and you sure looked good
Hair hanging down in the leaves
Your neck tilted back to make a rainbow

I was losing control of the language again
I am losing control of the language again

Along with the morning mists
The tender leaves gently  uncurl
Soak in the first rays of the Sun
Listen closely to the dew
And its translucent views
Up in the mists
Rolls the voice of the soul
Behold

🌿🌿