An electric sun meets the horizon

on a cold southern day

its December now

there is no powder snow

or day glow dying leaves

this town is a ghost

to its wishes

the watchmen

wade the hoards

and observe sociology

while the animals

hide from predators

the sun soon hides

from night

everything is escaping something

only to find themselves

back in it

the next mourning

america has become

a desert for dreamers

disappear disciples

take your knowledge

like precocious jewels and metals

and hide those thoughts

in jars and under mattresses

there are burglars on the prowl

listening to our tall tales on the telephone

I speak only in code

all my words are ambiguous

and the decipher dictionary

is out of print

I am the enigma machine

you can’t understand what

I mean

but there is more truth

hidden under what is seen

the clean fiend

who has a lust for life

it’s like being the only

one at the party

it’s all what you make of it

how you interpret it

and digest it

what is it

we have never had the answer

we make fiction to fill gaps

and pass it off as gospel

its truly awful

the ugly mirage

of all things beautiful

white wash fences

turn gray