Even the trees are on something.
Somebody, somewhere, is almost
making love. Clouds target the hillside.
Leaves are trapped by the bars
of their branches and airplanes
guard the blue, as you try to break through
the green prison of your eyes.
Everyone is going to get off.
Ω
Unfortunately there are no positions left
he said. For the record, what can you do?
Somebody, somewhere, is making a killing.
Cigars leer across barstools, asking for a light
now the Sky™ has been taken from your house.
Then a briefcase tries to sell you up the river.
You shoot the breeze. He talks of a message:
there’d be something in it, all you need do is deliver.
Ω
The addicted trees are hooked
on the air. Somebody, somewhere,
is inventing a cure.
Everyone inside is bustling to break out
and the sun has served its time.
Wet dreamers of wide profit margins
drive below the golfball moon,
their speakers selling them life
style options, while you are lying
low. Thieves and lovers gamble in your eyes.
Ω
There is a rustling without the windows,
a tinkling in your ear. And somebody,
somewhere, is saved by a machine.
In your dreams you speak to free
heartbeats, dipsticks, ice flows, smart bombs,
moon men, wolfhounds, death pints,
blue chips, close weather, stem cells, burning discs
and world wide searches. You speak of bonds.
Ω
You wake behind the sun and make
your delivery. There is nothing
in it. The ground beneath your feet
rotates. The planes are on patrol.
Something flies into the pane and dies.
A breeze blows in and everyone profits.
Somebody, somewhere, will understand.
Rub the blue eyes of your windows.
Love is making trees.