In a forest of stone
underneath the corporate canopy
where the sun

rarely
filters
down

the ground
is not so soft
not so soft


they build buildings to house people
making money

or they build buildings to make money
off of housing people
it's true

like a lot of things are true
I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor
that is not so soft

I look up
it looks like the buildings are burning
but it's just the sun setting

the solar system calling an end
to another business day
eternally circling signally

the rythmic clicking on and off
of computers
the pulse

of the american machine
the pulse
that draws death dancing

out of anonymous side streets
you know
the ones that always get dumped on

and never get plowed
it draws death dancing
out of little countries

with funny languages
where the ground is getting harder
and it was

not
that
soft

before

those who call the shots

are never in the line of fire
why
where there's life for hire

out there
if a flag of truth were raised
we could watch every liar

rise to wave it
here
we learn america like a script

playwright
birthright
same thing

we bring
ourselves to the role
we're all rehearsing for the presidency

I always wanted to be
commander in chief
of my one woman army


but I can envision the mediocrity
of my finest hour

it's the failed america in me
it's the fear that lives
in a forest of stone

underneath the corporate canopy
where the sun
rarely

filters
down
and the ground

is not so soft