Give me a warm bed to rise from,
A guitar to write songs with,
A pad of paper for my poems,
A ham and cheese sandwich for lunch,
A mid-day walk around my neighborhood,
A friend to talk to on the phone,
A something sweet to eat,
A clean and tidy room,
A midnight walk up to the deserted campus,
And I will be content.
What happens when you write a song,
Is all your life comes flooding back,
All the life you forgot,
All the life you’d like to gather up,
All your life that fell on the floor,
All your life.
What happens when you sing that song,
Is all your life comes out your mouth,
And whoever is around,
Will know you better,
Even if it’s just you.
I don’t want confusing love,
the kind that stabs at my stomach.
I want peaceful love,
the kind that scratches my head
I don’t think it can rain hard enough to wash all my sins away.
The-last-great-goodbye came without so much of a wave.
There was no yelling like one might expect.
There was no final stand.
There was no reaching out and calling you back, dripping in sweat and tears.
I memorized your dark gray silhouette; watched it leave.
Watched it never come back.
I miss you.
That’s all I really wanted to say.
In fact, everything I say these days is just code for,
I miss you.
Right in the middle of the story.
Followed by moving and touching.
Metaphors that are unclear but will soon be deciphered.
Personal story from before the great war.
Pull quote from General about power hunger.
Explaining the quote with more personal story, but this time, during the war.
Those sneaky metaphors are beginning to take shape…
A map showing the impacted region.
A scale to compare to your thumb nail.
(Inside your head there are violins playing)
THE NARRATOR IS ACTUALLY THE YOUNG BOY!
Pan all the way out.
“We are all tiny specks falling like snow over Chernobyl.”
It’s so American it hurts your teeth
So laid back but without the beach
So 1950s that Elvis ain’t dead
So Midwest see the back your head