cold yellow light on a sunday afternoon
and i apologize for nothing
i have no use for
burroughs or bukowski
edie is dead
and andrea
and all of your patron saints are
nowhere to be found
none of your cities
were ever meant to last forever
and i am tired of being hungry and i am
tired of being lost
but all of these houses look the same
all of these roads end without warning
at cemeteries or abandoned factories or
rivers with indian names in this land
where there are no indians and the
girl didn't jump she fell
four stories and drunk and left her
three year old daughter with nothing
but a missing father
the pacific was only a dream
3000 light years away and
when i stand in the shadow of this bridge
i have nothing of my own
when i pick up my son he cries
we are always on
the verge of being lost