hidden in streets,
seen in poetic beasts,
anticipating October
for auction of memory,
I am the silly picture of discovery,
yet still self absorbed.
music for the age of minor miracles,
I hate myself,
but I love myself
each week
in a 200 hotel soundtrack,
minus the money.
where we go from here
depends on what our ears hear
and what clothes we wear
out there in the desert,
the place of life's guesses.
feedback for points of arrows
aimed right at us,
as we already stand close to edges
of train tracks in desolate towns
where frowns outnumber faces,
but standing tall still seems possible
and I am stupid enough to try to recapture my roar.