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Duck, Little Brother, Duck
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Calvin Young
Claustrophobic, in tiny tin cans, hurdling towards nothing, through naked Kansas, vulnerable, as flies, on an empty plate.
When the colors burst above, reaching structures and showered us in light, we got it on camera and, made all the miles between home and here automatically disappear, and the fire flies fight for a role in our film, about all us insects buzzing through, ant hills.
The chandelier drips water, from the bathroom above, murky tile, go back to sleep.
We go town to town dressed in disguise, no really knows us, we're far from home, and forgotten what our own beds feel like.
I, call, the, couch.
Those bleak, unclear, back alleys of our culture, get us nowhere, it's time we just simply jangle on.
Farm land, city life, at least half of it is nothing, can someone tell me which half is which, oh, never mind.
I found solace, in the early morning midwest, it's time to leave get back in the car.
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