screech

One a.m. and i look upon the empty campus streets of
emporia, wondering who
i am. the town smells like desolation and pollution
from the local crap
plant. i can't seem to shake the thought that we
are all just sordid
animals, struggling to find our souls at the back of
beat novels and in the
orange heat at the end of cigarretes. at one a.m.
in emporia, you can run
rampant like a naked shadow and get stoned in the
black safety of the
countryside, and listen to the cry of the american
night yearn for a wild
creature savior--the sad, solemn american night,
where nothing is free
anymore.

i met a guy named phil in newton the other day; an
eager alcoholic, who
plays blues lixx on his american-made fender
strat--last time i saw him, we
convinced his drunk ass to climb a tree, on which
he walked out on a limb,
bottle in hand, and declared, "hey shit man."
that is the real American dream.
in front of God and everyone, i want to kill these
torturous brain cells,
climb a tree, with one hand on a half-empty bottle,
walk out on the limb and
stretch out my proverbial cock to the world and
shout "hey shit man," and
pray my voice will resound in the ears of the
bright-eyed children of
yet-to-come.