Sunday, October 23, 2005

Like Clockwork

Drowning out sounds of broker small talk
same AM radio speach
warming beer perspires
warming neck sweats
scratching at it
dead skin under fingernails
"Those kids don't belong here!
They're breaking windows,
Slithering up beer slick tile...
This place ain't the back of a Chevy"

Stradling half-life
soaking up sunrise temperment
earning their keep running mezo-American fairy tales
they sing of La Chupacabra
they've got revolution in those boots

searchlight reflection off a thousand compact surfaces
slow slow slow progression
somehow there's a dance
and someone falls out of step
that moment is captured in pixels
before the floor gives way
before gravity
but after the last important steps

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