The stalks are green enough,
The roads appropriately rutted,
Views aplenty through the rotted slats
Of pioneer lean-to's and the brigades of rainbow Winnebagos.
Why's there edu-macation — for a job?
I have a job.
But is it an occupation?
My occupation is never a job.
Jobs are where you get shamed,
Pinched with red irons, fired.
I suppose it's that way here, too
Despite the pay cut,
The absurdity of replacing two legends,
The promises of freedom and how you never see how it's a lie,
Although you know, until it’s too late,
3 o'clock in the morning, to be precise,
Praying the familiar world will speak.