Even when they're not drunk
At ten a.m.
You can hear the transmission slipping in their voice
The tone of a crop duster
Roaring overhead
Coming out of apparent nowhere
The previous grumbles sounding so subtle
And far away
Before you know it
There is the scent of iron and motor oil
And maybe ketchup and eggs
I am breaking the illusion
But something is overpowering
My senses here --
Perhaps ketchup and roses
Maybe fresh linens and curry vomit
No matter --
There is is the timbre of wet wood
And the boom of lightning --
When it's right on you
Thunder and lightning are the same thing
--
8.18.12
At ten a.m.
You can hear the transmission slipping in their voice
The tone of a crop duster
Roaring overhead
Coming out of apparent nowhere
The previous grumbles sounding so subtle
And far away
Before you know it
There is the scent of iron and motor oil
And maybe ketchup and eggs
I am breaking the illusion
But something is overpowering
My senses here --
Perhaps ketchup and roses
Maybe fresh linens and curry vomit
No matter --
There is is the timbre of wet wood
And the boom of lightning --
When it's right on you
Thunder and lightning are the same thing
--
8.18.12
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