Witness this clothes line, hanging every idea I had growing up
making black birds dance with my hand claps
testing my lungs, singing Silverstein songs
and I am hopping on rubber that still scares my brother’s face
teacher, leave me be
I am the devil’s son
realistic words, genuine and pure
when all you can say is, “I hope you are at peace”
peace, something simple when defined
but we’re all reading lies from electronics and organs
then rubbing ash on our heads as an excuse
while, all I see is Christ getting off
to the sounds of lambs breading
so, that child with the hair due
that will fill your stomach full of soup and cereal is dead
the swing set, built on wood and chains is dead
the pine tree we climbed, getting stuck at the top is dead
Sandy, the precious pretty girl is dead
old man barker, swaying on the rocker is dead
appleton road is dead
because a different decade has arrived
and I can’t stand still on this time
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