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All hope is like squeezed juice.
Folder:
Bad poetry why wouldn't I enjoy the tumbleweeds
you've squeezed your two dreams into. Between the beginning and the end
of the small body of the cigarette I can stand
to see the pair disappearing beyond your reach
your unfurling tendrils
short. I used to think your life was like a tundra
but you are a desert. The sand always in your eyes
one of them wants to be a painter while the other brother eye
wants to continue in the haze of religion coming from the ground
of Texas. A true desert
shifting slightly each year into new and old
streaks of pulverized rock. Your chest is as flat and brown
as the body of a guitar that looks like most of Texas. Confusing
sounds are the signature of modern music. If
you had dreamed of say, writing music then maybe I would not possess
the old brown instrument petting it into semitone mating songs
that sway in different directions.
