Who had lost their minds today
With divine flow despite
Lithium skies
And the distractions from
Predictable surprise,
The root beer not only hot
But out of the tap with
Centuries of resentment
Smooth-topped like that,
With any pleasant memory
Of Woolworth's or any
Other place that safely
Doesn't exist anymore
For there are too many doors
And every idea is a weapon
In some hands
Dangerous if even touched
In the soft peeling crease.
It rumbles, the hunger to understand
Down the addict tracks
Loud to an unknown destination.
Let us build our tents from refuse
Where the creosote piles
Spread wide with furniture
That once was lumber
The sight of which can't be stood.
The light in the glass is enough.
