Songs made only from handed down
guitars and the lyrics of those
with no hope pour out the windows
of cars and trucks parked erratically
in the lot where business is bad.
On the inside they are flooded
with the disappointment of another
day with someone as their master.
Paperwork and phone calls are the new
chains with which they are bound
to what they carry, and the trees
they pass on their commutes
don’t even register beyond
blurs in peripheral vision.
Every single decision is scrutinized
by someone feeling something
placed inside them by a system
where the world can only be
what people prop up with their money.
A tide of burning earth
has shaped the landscape
and they can feel it heating up
below their feet.
Heat
Teleporting Typewriter 