As You Sit There Counting Your Followers…

There are no more post cards from the ranch, at heavens reach, this is true

My throat hurts from typing a thousand letters

I will not utter a word to you again, you and I both know this

There is nothing left, spoken aloud through a mouth, it seems now primitive

Our teeth are hidden beneath our fingertips, strong from the months of banging, tapping, left to right, left to right

To rhyme is not the make of a true poet, she told me this for sure

So to sit here not now singing a song… 

Keep it flat, flat, flat

As the ribbons blow, the flag reaches, the stars fall off onto your greasy head

They said,  ”give it to me for free” “give it to me for free”

So they did fool, they did

My thumb has entered in more vulgarities than Roxanne 

Wide awake, ten points of interest capture a room full of people 

For now