CLOSE TO MY HEAD TONIGHT


PLAYING SOLITAIRE UNTIL FINGERS BEGIN TO SPEAK BACK TO YOU IN A 
LANGUAGE YOU WERE ONLY AWARE EXISTING IN A LAND FAR AWAY FROM YOUR CRAZED NEIGHBORS ACTING AS THOUGH THE ELECTION 
TOMORROW IS JUST ANOTHER MELTED MARSHMALLOW ON A STICK 
IN THE BURNING JUNGLE.

RUMINATING OVER THE CARS THAT ARE BEGINNING TO STICK TOGETHER WITH THE WEST FLUIDS OF LOST VODKA DROPLETS FROM THE TOP OF A USED GLASS CRUSTED WITH ENOUGH FINGER PRINTS 
TO SEND AT LEAST 31 PEOPLE TO JAIL.

KILLING THE CARD INTO AN OBLIVION,
THE COLORS ON THEIR FRONTS BEGIN TO FADE FROM BLACKS AND REDS 
TO GREENS AND YELLOWS.

THE NIGHT IS COMING IN LIKE A BULLET LOOKING FOR THE 
LAST CONFEDERATE SOLDIER HIDING BEHIND A PIECE OF 
PLYWOOD.

THIS NIGHT AND THE CARDS CAN CHANGE COLORS 
TOGETHER, THEY WOULD SEEM TO BE A NICE FIT TOGETHER IN SUCH A REGALIA OF EMOTIONS THAT WOULD 
FIT BOTH OF THEIR STATUTES BRIGHTLY.

TOO LATE…

THE CARDS HAVE FALLEN APART AND THE FINGERTIPS DON'T EVEN HAVE ENOUGH ENERGY TO SPEAK THE LANGUAGE THAT COMES FROM 
THE MID-AFTERNOON PUBLIC RADIO SHOW.

AS THE CARDS EXIT INTO THE DUST GOONS LISTEN TO,
THE NIGHT HAS ALSO DECIDED TO LEAVE.

LEAVING BEHIND SHELF CLOUDS HIDING THE SUN CURSING THE STARS.

YES, THE MOON AND CARDS HAVE INDEED DECIDED
TO LEAVE FOR THE EVE.

OFF LIKE AN EASY LISP TO SHAKE 
AND DOWN WITH THE SOLDIER THAT HELD THAT PIECE
OF PLYWOOD TOO CLOSE TO HIS HEAD.