I come from a haunted house
in Orlando fucking Florida,
behind which the woods are still burning
to this day.
even the evening star
knows that bad shit happens,
but good shit happens, too,
few and far from now.
the typewriter tells the truth
when there is truth to tell,
as I stomp the mud back
into the good earth.
you're right, I am a bum,
but I got sand and gravel
in my shorts that has more tenure
than a goddamn bak teller for great western.
my history is paper,
ready to burn, ready to bite,
with authenticity to deliver
when crime is happy within.
cruise with me,
come back,
make a move,
change all that.