no room for city folk.

cool city boy,

with inky blacktops,

wander the streets,

of equisit backdrops,

purple plush sneakers,

linger a name,

tell me a story,

cry out insane.

calm country man,

lend me a hand,

build up a harvest,

of industrial wasteland.

crazy city kid,

look what you did,

took all my lovin,

with nothin to give.

collected farm friend,

this could be the end,

lost in a romance,

written lovers in pen,

surrounded by stars,

the country is ours,

there will be no city,

in the place we began. 

lines

lines. to organize and patronize right from wrong.

to concecrate order. 

to ensure efficiency. 

lines with subtle beginnings and infinite endings. 

as precise as they aspire, they are afterall a construction of abnormal.

to assume liniar, they must of corse be as effective as time.

these are the things we wait for.

give priority to.

accept without question.

though I wonder, what is at the end of the line?

like a tree rooted in a singular dimension.

time too works only in singularity.

our line and the brash assumption of infinate.

is only complete after we have reached the end.

which again, ascends.

enlightened earth

the clouds hang in the sky 

like a heavy heart

ready to shed

and bring new life

to the dry and stark foundation

which they surround

they grey world 

covered in shadows

“where is the light”

the people ask

angry 

“it comes from within”

replied the earth

enlightened