On the outlook of this river
I'm always
gliding with the time.
And the call I just received
was one ended, it ended fine.

So don't
be late
Or I might just celebrate alone.

Oh, I remember things from way back
yeah I can see into the past.
All those bedrooms without inhabitants,
always lurking,
always last.

So please,
like a daydream,
don't tell everyone you know.
Because I can see for miles
but I can't outrun a gun.

There were people in the forest
rubbing sticks
and counting stars,
and their faces were all done up,
so particular,
so bizarre.

And what I really loved about it
was all the talking they didn't do.

Nervous hands digging mud holes in the snow
their shallow faces glancing frantically up at
mother moon begging her for milk in the drought of apocalypse.

Oh, let there be light through the leaves they thought
to themselves.
Smearing the paint on each others bodies and calling to
their gods. "End the drought O great one above."

As the shrapnel rained down a child was born.

11/19/2009