There is more to doing
Than trying
There is the weight of one's own shoulders
There is gravity
There is sadness sewn
Into the fabric of our song
Before the actual sickness could be manipulated
It just hounded
Barking outside the window
Leading some to submit
Some to write songs about it
Studio dramatization
The other white meat
Taking those silty waves
And filling them with gravied breadcrumbs
Or something heavy like motor oil
Slathering that all over a pie crust
And setting it on the window sill
Just those bits that tug
Somewhere outside the cockles
Following along in your head
With a proper hat on your head
And a black and white studio audience
Hearing this all before, jilted
With a puffy swagger
Like marshmallow fluff
Sporting a ribbon of Smucker's strawberry jam
Sharing the density of ham
Something catches and people bob their heads
In lieu of anything else that pops
Texture becomes a commodity
Even a sign of good taste
Not reflecting
The process or caliber
Of which all great things
Must be measured
The best in that field
Or something that can't be defined, discussed, or compared
--
11.30.09
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