exit tune
going above heads,
'cause they listen
but they can't hear.
only we can hear this song.
there's a butt
at the window
smoking his thirteenth
"last" cigarette.
there's idiots daring fun in the front row.
they are deaf to this.
while the rhythm section
stands through brass
and the orrery breathes
through the most beautiful eyes,
I hope the rain don't come too soon.
never been crazy like this.
the stairs task the bag,
dance with honest, small neighborhoods.
men make decisions,
and decisions make men.
I sing and I settle into this,
and I scream my fucking arms off
from this cinnamon mountain.
We replicate the fix live,
co-producers of our own solar system.
keys are keys,
fashion the world an Audience
to our wonderful show.