the poor keep their lies moving. fingers sweeping across dusty counter tops wrapping crustily around anything more than miniscule. they cry that heaven's found a way for them. she done got that stone veil propped across her nosebridge. she's calling us in all the way. the children she bore and we misunderstood. we all just misunderstood. don't look at them now because they're hungry and they've been sleeping alone these nights. mouths curled up at the corners because there ain't no safety here. cities cities cities. just more blood oil to burn down. they've been walking to get here, leaving piles of clothes they've shrunk out of. burnt out into last night's home. children born into grown men. disoriented irises that speak in networks of tongues.
the derelicts follow these train tracks from the coal mines to the oil fields: down down down. they live to live some more. they're never going back the way they came. it's only tales of other years. the mothers the fathers stopped calling them home. jazz children and copper kings. here where it's safe to drag your bones down the windblown plains across the reddened clayhordes. the past is the collapse of today and this is why these people are dangerous things. they're cupping raw souls in their raked chests. a heart with eyes wide open. a mile isn't a mile when it's home and you'll never need to mourn if they're laying in your dust trails. "i'll replant this soil, drive harvest home harvest rain. the sky just ain't what she used to be, and this is why to you we supplicate." from the shore to the borderlands, through fog haze mist, it's a chant that goes silent in their throats but resounds in their knuckles.
through me, you'll know them as they know ghosts.
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