poetry is the vicks vapo rub of the literary commune

days spent kicking dirt in wonder
polishing bottles off
i don't see every stop sign
or any that say go
we're living in a one room shack now
with bodies built for sound
no dishes no television
just an airmattress we found
he hands me all i ask for and i give him just the same
we've fired all the hired hands
and began excepting blame
through sexless information
and the ticking of the clock
we must have misconstrued the time frame
bewildered by the one called pops
if we all fucked the same way
could there be rationale
the fire fighters long since gone to bed
and the lovers went to hell
portabella and a stingray
an alchemist named charles right
will try their best now to convince you
its okay to sleep at night
but i can't be sure of your faces
when the sun is full of shit
so the moon it true convincing me
that there's more out there that fit