sandwiched by impending and prior,
rocks, hard places—you get it,
everyday is hard on death row, its true,
even if i didn't say that shit.
i read it somewhere, or heard it, can't remember, its been awhile.
waiting for the good foot, dropping for a nickel—dime—something,
lordy knows, the view from the breadline is stark,
bleak is not strong enough a word.
its not the lifestyle,
i've lived on three cookies and a cup of popcorn—soda on fridays,
adam smith ain't built a wing i can't dwell in,
shit...i can make fire.
its what i keep hearing.
i heard that was you,
talking about this and that,
its nonsense. you're good at that, real good.
nah, you say, 'it couldn't have been me!'
but i know better—i know you,
full of vinegar, rage, full of cloak and dagger,
it had to be,
it could be no one else—only a fool would say that.
eat the rich and burn their carcasses but it'll never come to that, you think?
they'll pay someone to make their fire.
it won't be me.
i'll be where the wild things go, proennecke—like.
stumbled and broken, then you can erase my ass,
i'm on that first trail to serenity,
the trail's full, bitch, and i'ma leave it as i found it.
see, i'm long past the point where i've lost my shit.