What ho! This tumbleweed nostalgia coming on,
Scraping down the greased slopes of my gentrified heart!
A longing, perhaps, for the mystery even this town once possessed,
This back lot of cheerless brick and shadow.
Nights I swim the almond river
That courses down the dark plain of sleep,
Continents hosting some grainy scrimmage of regret.
I awake to the world-famous world booming up river,
The after-echo of arbitrary weights, measures and jingles rising,
A little night music lingering somewhere, not here,
First light setting all forms in order again,
Morning now, meaning business.
to the dying applause of the wind--
fatigued though no doubt less
than the neighbors seeking sleep
as refuge from our bearish twelve-tone rage
resolved now into soft decisions
of whether or not to leave the windows open
or shower this late
Alternatives grind like distant gears
climbing into/out of earshot and we listen
as if something in the night could level
our facial geographies
disprove our dream junk theories
save us from destroying even the ruins of love