From his typewriter he sees
The holding pattern of the planes
As they fly into the setting sun
His thought is of a train
Liberated by libation
Mind blown by sonic waves
His freedom comes from post cards
From Ross rolling on the plains
April 1 1988 a strange occurrence it did seem
A beat was fading far away
A gun shot through the breeze
Coincidence his belligerence
His friend the wild seed
Planted thoughts deep inside his head
Vicariously he bleeds