a mechanical tree in Kansas
dreams of machine death
first there is rust
and then there is pressure
melting it down
to feed the birds
you thought it was a matter
of right and wrong
everybody is talking backwards
I stand on my head
and recite the declaration of independence
a man is checking my feet for wounds
he says he is a priest
but his breath smells like a pedophile
sick dogs
pick up the broken heads
hide them back into the gloom
we tie them up together
a shared infinity
as real as we can get it
it was a solid job
everyone said so
a solid world
we thought we were building America
we painted ourselves into the classical paintings
there we are in the street scene, with the smoke
and the canon balls exploding
we are imigrants, fresh off the train
looking for god in the theaters and saloons
the surprise of the death
shocked by the barricades
we close in on ourselves
eating our own flesh
hangers hang from wooden pegs
a keg of gunpowder
matches strewn across the floor
a pile of indescribable rubbish
no secrets here
everything adds up to nothing
Julia with her sons
poor imigrant homes
the sign says no dumping
there is a canon in the field
it sits there alone
moving it's hands
searching for a shell
read to me with your thick ancient accent
shirley temple between your legs
the river rolls up and says hello
it wants to throw nickels against the wall
you say successs is New York
blotches from the sun
the pale rider
why is it so cold?
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