I
My old road was a railroad track
My old road was a railroad track
to the packing house and back.
$7 a day. Worked dark to dark.
Crate each month to eat or sell.
Crate each month to eat or sell.
House that whistled and wept.
Born to help pay my parents' way.
Beat me tough. Taught me silence.
Enlisted when I was 21. Viet Nam?
Yes, sure. Not a problem. OK.
Billion dollar crazy! Murderama!
Just to get some guys re-elected.
II
That blue sky we invented
to spark up languages of hope,
nothing behind it but the nothing
in which we dream stuff up,
just as the tile floor underfoot
holds nothing below, and
nothing's behind each wall.
We carry our world as a box
suspendered from our shoulders,
shocked and dismayed whenever
we bump blindly into other worlds.
we bump blindly into other worlds.
III
Don't need to know any more about myself.
Nothing to gain; nothing to prove.
I'll never be interviewed.
Money erases all of us.
We survive by getting lost.
For the rest, walk in fever.
Then, lasso the golden palomino.
Bust it, like you broke the world.
The sunset is your tunnel out.
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