the cars all look like hounddogs as i drive down lemp,
drinking coffee for an elevated writers block
and mushroom tea for the dead,
the newest lostest generation yet
and yet so sure of our gadgets
and our debt
and our splintered love.
i truly dont know what to say about us in these moments...
that our skies may sing and hum a billion tiny flatscreen televisions
to the sound of 'ghostriders in the sky'
or the beach boys.
where does our money come from,
where does it go,
does it sift through our hands like the sands of time
as midget children in the sandbox
playing with our gadgets n shit,
what debaclous wonderment
how to continue in this manner
in such an erstwhile faux-milkhoney land.