| In a forest of stone
|
| underneath the corporate canopy
|
| where the sun
|
| rarely
|
| filters
|
| down
|
| the ground
|
| is not so soft
|
| not so soft
|
| they build buildings to house people
|
| making money
|
| or they build buildings to make money
|
| off of housing people
|
| it’s true
|
| like a lot of things are true
|
| I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor
|
| that is not so soft
|
| I look up it looks like the buildings are burning
|
| but it’s just the sun setting
|
| the solar system calling an end
|
| to another business day
|
| eternally circling signally
|
| the rythmic clicking on and off
|
| of computers
|
| the pulse
|
| of the american machine
|
| the pulse
|
| that draws death dancing
|
| out of anonymous side streets
|
| you know
|
| the ones that always get dumped on and never get plowed
|
| it draws death dancing
|
| out of little countries
|
| with funny languages
|
| where the ground is getting harder
|
| and it was
|
| not
|
| that
|
| soft
|
| before
|
| those who call the shots
|
| are never in the line of fire
|
| why
|
| where there’s life for hire
|
| out there
|
| if a flag of truth were raised
|
| we could watch every liar
|
| rise to wave it here
|
| we learn america like a script
|
| playwright
|
| birthright
|
| same thing
|
| we bring
|
| ourselves to the role
|
| we’re all rehearsing for the presidency
|
| I always wanted to be commander in chief
|
| of my one woman army
|
| but I can envision the mediocrity
|
| of my finest hour
|
| it’s the failed america in me it’s the fear that lives
|
| in a forest of stone
|
| underneath the corporate canopy
|
| where the sun
|
| rarely
|
| filters
|
| down
|
| and the ground
|
| is not so soft |