menu
The sun is swallowed
By hungry forsaken clouds
As my hand is swallowed by a tablecloth shroud.
The menu is taking a long time coming
And I can hear a serpent’s hiss.
Seems to me there was a sign somewhere.
I must have missed it when I kissed.
And I’m sure there was a door when I came in.
But there doesn't seem to be one to get out.
Here comes someone now.
Maybe I can find out what this place is all about.
Well, “We don’t have a menu.
Things don’t work that way here you see.
Just tell me what you want.
I’ll see if any of it is free.”
I’m breathing in the kind of reality
Where every center turns out to be a border.
And where you’re free to order whatever you want
But you never get what you order.
There must be a special freedom
To go along with that special center,
A freedom spelled out on a sign that says,
“It’d be best not to enter”.
I’m as hungry as those clouds.
Feeling just as forsaken too.
Listening to a sun that says,
“I’m not burning for me or for you”.
There’s no sign of anyone
As clouds part to reveal a box.
“Talk into me”, it says,
“Say what it is that you want.”
I say it as if I didn’t know that
It’s connected to a fake recorder.
But then what do you expect
When every last one of your centers is a border.
And where you’re free to order whatever you want
But you never get what you order.