I’m gonna be tired in the morning.
I don’t care; I don’t care.
The fucking fireworks poppin’ like goddamned clockwork,
regular:spring-fed:grindin’:gratin’
finished Gone Home, ‘n listened to some Modest Mouse,
makes me think of highschool.
Summer here’s only got hints of Arkansas,
but i still get lost in ’em.
Drivin’ home, cross from Iowa to Illinois,
crossin’ the floodin’ Mississippi.
Hints of Arkansas, that tire to road sound of vynil,
that bridge from earth, tree-top flyin’
soft lipped loves with sun-bleached glows.
“Trailer Trash”’s guitar solo.
‘n I like workin’ the weekends best,
not ’cause the other guys are a pain,
they’re a good group, good group of guys,
but the run of the course, just the grass and dirt and the job.
It’s simple.
Ain’t no question about what to get done.
Ain’t no question about what to say; to who.
I’m gonna be tired in the morning.
I don’t care; I don’t care.
Forgive the damned ingulgence,
but god, for one more soft-lipped…
And the realization that a friend’s felt that same heart-break world-stop guilt,
I can’t, can’t shake that.
Not that anyone could.
That scent of dry dust in the air,
browned wild grasses head-high off the highway.
Hills ‘n crags ‘n bluffs ‘n towns ‘n valleys,
‘n here we got these Mississippi swells,
and the streets that ain’t floodin’ are blocked off for a party.
And Home.
Ain’t had home in a long, long time.
Ain’t ever had to work for it either.
But Home.
I’m gonna be tired in the morning.
I don’t care;
I don’t care.
