Sunday, February 18, 2007

Saved

It’s a traffic jam in a tunnel,
A tunnel under a hill with a church

Perched in the clouds,
And our radio reception is gone.

Our speakers are all static,
Our minds left to think about

Bumper stickers of the car ahead,
The car going nowhere fast.

Christian puppets giving a show
In the rearview mirror,

Their handlers in all black,
Trying to unite their doppelgangers.

Everyone in on a suicide pact,
Meeting with the devil in his lair

Who’s only vapors, cold as cement,
Leaky as a crypt. And the crows

In hardhats, miners headlights,
Black lung and hay fever,

To lead us out, squawking
And picking our brains.

No comments: