Mashed-Potato Sky
Someone stop me, I'm insensitive
You don't know what an epiphany that is
Stymied by the smell of ripening grass
We look smart ‘cause we're afraid to ask
Happenstance — it makes a mockery
Of the granite in our back pockets
That's not it
It's more like a piece of aging sky
That won't let me keep my powder dry
You don't want words you can't understand
Or imperfect dentistry or calloused hands
Just some tokens and an avalanche
For a more organic way to fly
Simple, stuttered truths and sweater vests
These should be enough to leave ourselves impressed
Why would you expect an ounce of praise
Just for catching pornographic rays?
Ocean murmurs trigger bluish thoughts
There's sand between our toes but you doubt it
(I doubt it)
You'll find heaven is more rapturous
Once you've washed off all that angel dust
All the captains and the corporals
Who enunciate as if their mouths are full
Walk among them: matter's everything
Even if it's only puffy white
I'd forgotten just how much you blink
Wag your tongue at me in scorn but I still think
That your feline ways won't get you by
Underneath this mashed-potato sky
Show me eyes that act like cutlery
I want to beat them back but I need them
Who sees them
Knows that when we're on our backs we tell
How much crap we take, how much it smells
You don't want words you can understand
You want validation from a rambling man
Slumming mightily's a minor pose
It takes guts to live beneath the sky
© 1999 John Brocato
You don't know what an epiphany that is
Stymied by the smell of ripening grass
We look smart ‘cause we're afraid to ask
Happenstance — it makes a mockery
Of the granite in our back pockets
That's not it
It's more like a piece of aging sky
That won't let me keep my powder dry
You don't want words you can't understand
Or imperfect dentistry or calloused hands
Just some tokens and an avalanche
For a more organic way to fly
Simple, stuttered truths and sweater vests
These should be enough to leave ourselves impressed
Why would you expect an ounce of praise
Just for catching pornographic rays?
Ocean murmurs trigger bluish thoughts
There's sand between our toes but you doubt it
(I doubt it)
You'll find heaven is more rapturous
Once you've washed off all that angel dust
All the captains and the corporals
Who enunciate as if their mouths are full
Walk among them: matter's everything
Even if it's only puffy white
I'd forgotten just how much you blink
Wag your tongue at me in scorn but I still think
That your feline ways won't get you by
Underneath this mashed-potato sky
Show me eyes that act like cutlery
I want to beat them back but I need them
Who sees them
Knows that when we're on our backs we tell
How much crap we take, how much it smells
You don't want words you can understand
You want validation from a rambling man
Slumming mightily's a minor pose
It takes guts to live beneath the sky
© 1999 John Brocato