musical Michelin men,
changing our stations like tires,
making movies melodies
and melodies mockeries,
break hearts with rhyming ironies
cliche enough for our youthful psyches to believe again...

but rock & roll hall of fame hip hop hypocrits
camp inside this skin and bone
with their guns and spinners
waking us into remedyless comas
like Waco, Texas kool-aid grasping fanatics
waiting for some Bruce springsteen,
-make me cry-
revival...

ties loosened by garage band
-cleansheet addicts of rewording reworded words-
pop stars
disguising themselves behind "emo hair"
and pencil darkened -i'm pensive- stares,
curtain emotions in some six degrees of separation,
"sure we get Lou Reed" sort of way
until the numbness feels like depth
and we are buried...

Bruce Springsteen makes me cry
as he yearns for his Queen of Arkansas,
Because I too am alone,
seeking solace in angels in Asbury
or bird preying on poetry atop wires
as I pray for God to exist
and for music to win back her soul...

but we have ALL sold our souls...
for gasoline,
for 15 minutes on a faux red carpet,
for the confusion to leave
and the pain to pass
for the season to change
and a smile to last...