Tuesday, March 25, 2008

A Series of Small Roadtrip Poems

Father you made me leave
mother you made me follow.
As a generation we are one
to your basements we do flock.

Farmers burn the land
as we burn dinosaurs.
Rolling along the network of scars
that cover our promises.

A quaint little farmhouse
in the middle of nowhere.
Strings hold our minds together
occam's razor has to fall.

Would you be able to
fit your whole life and
all the things you bought into a metal box
being towed by another metal box?