bags of dirt

the more things change

the more they stay the same. and the more it rains

the less i know. why do these foreign skies change the way home?

why do these hotel walls hang their strangeness on my own?

oh mama

i'm gonna roll

with a truckload of hurt. these wheels have rolled across i don't know how many bags of dirt

barefoot in the back of the van

tossing an arcing empty soda can. long ways

long days

waitresses frayed and underpaid we were harried and waylaid. we arrived that evening and not a moment too soon. finding a place it was

you may say

cool. these sketches of an infinite architecture are ink and unconfirmed conjecture

a dream glimpse of the puppeteer's knuckle a fragment of a fraction of a gesture

and when the ghost whispers

i'll set down all i hear

a garbled

shorthand outline by a marionette in fear

oh mama

i'm gonna roll

with a truckload of hurt. these wheels have rolled across i don't know how many bags of dirt