This guy over here is going to rip a new one out of our own universe
As we sit around the table in prayer delivering the elephant
OUR universe, goddammit
Do you know what that means for you and me?
Things may get a little bigger, spread out
Shirts may not need to be folded or tucked in
We can leave many of our shirts’ arms out across the bed
I stood there drinking tap water from a beer can
Looking at the shirts’ arms
This one pointing that way
That one pointing this way
Trying to figure out any one and true direction
But, as I said, I think this guy over here is going to rip a new one out of our own universe
Unless he already did
Looking at every shirt arm – fuck, you’re right, they’re called sleeves not arms – my brain getting tangled up in their different directions like somebody twirled the sign around on some country road. This way to the beach. This way to Eurasia.
My little Lucerne
My little luxury sedan
Cell phone blocks the hazards with a plastic platter of festering hoagies in the backseat. God, I wish I had asked them to hold the mayo. Now we’ve got those big old mean flies with teeth biting in the Summer and sleeping in our beds.
It’s been so hot that I almost forgot that those flies were biting my head last night as I stood out front of your house knocking on your door over and over again while you sat around the table in prayer.
And, I will mention, it’s been too long since your security door has been unlocked. Now the lock is rusted. I should’ve known better than to try and use the front door to reach you.
Anyway, open up the skies, why don’t you? Maybe that way the flies will have enough room to breath and go off somewhere else with their horse teeth and stop biting me tonight.
-- Rick Weaver
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