what is it about september

some where off in the distance we're screaming from mountain tops about all the glass houses we've hit with stones. and the miles we've put on aging buckets of rusting bolts still echo of distant life that won't yet die. im either begging for the way back or pounding pavement forward with no destination. i'm a little tired, shes breathing heavy and telling me dreams come true when you make them and i roll naked in the idea that she might be right, and hell if its all an illusion why cant we lie to ourselves and call it perfect or happy or just plain nice, im on trains bound for everywhere all at once criss crossing the Nevada desert in old fords low on fuel, im home with the kids making dinner watching cartoons and riding a stolen Harley to Mexico with two pounds of grass in the saddle bags missing out on nothing but the day before when we weren't even friends yet. still we scream at empty skys because we know its gonna fall one day, but for the rest of the night at least its over looking the hoards, the excited dull and cheerfully miserable, the divorced infected and the sober peasants, cause its not what your going to be or even what you use to be, its probably closer to what you wanted to be...i think i like that, knowing that were better off not knowing what we think we should know.