24 Jun 2014, 8:32am
Writing
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My life as finished product

Rain boils off my hands and I have somebody else to like
Just some intricate ball
To keep me haphazard
I flunked out of my best deals
Opened my shirt on the daycare manager
After hours

The people told me I had to change

It was better in Los Angeles, but
bourbon

Here, steam rises from myrtles and parking lots
beside woods cut down to make more and more homes
There must be some millionaires on the way

I have to think of making my next big mistake
The big ticket

It hurts to think of you sleeping
In a quiet alley or a
Bamboo thicket
The pain of a field wound sorely dressed
Under an open drain

It hurts to think of anything left off
Or undone
Even a wound
Deeper and deeper they wanted to go
The tracks led up this embankment, I climbed
So high that day
I hadn’t planned on being so high
The pivot of the canyon was something you had to straddle
There wouldn’t be any homes down there for a million years

I couldn’t see you
But there was a whole world out there, below me

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