in the flat field

the skies are blue here
stretch on til the end of
time
which
itself
stretches
so the sun don't even set til you'vre slipped a couple yawns

i don't know how people can trust it

there's something about that
choking
grey
the ol reliable
hog butcher
provides

that seems more fitting more
suited
for life

even on a shitty day here
everything looks like a postcard
and
god i wish you were here
and i tell you i wish god was here

cause i tend to feel all alone
and
warm vapor
can't hold me like the wind
and palms just don't dance like them cloud scrapers
up in it

the moon is full
i assume

it must always
perched
fixed
half over the horizon

held down by the cables everyone's got hitched to their teevees

this is the first year i seen graffiti
where i don't see cubans
and it all seems derivative
rehearsed
safe
and
there ain't no basements
cepting of course the ocean
so i've got no gumption where to look
for no rock and roll
with its
musk of
leather
and
tar
i've never scent it here
maybe if i pick up my boots
walk in any direction
somewhat north
an hour and a half
i might stumble across some funny haircuts and cloves

but here we all have to phone in
our
smut

and if i could dial up
strippers and shotguns
there'd be holes in all my grandmother's walls
and a happy layer a shame caked on

i feel like if i had any friends that i could call up these days and
ask for them to strum me up a guitar solo on the acoustic
everything'd be alright

but i don't

i don't have anyone to sing for me
a bunch a caged birds and
borrowed metaphors

i fear
that
like my father and
his and his
since we washed up on this rock
i will never be able to leave the wind
and be well