Breaking tiles and you've been calling out for miles.
You search for understanding.
Tearing up the files while your dumb employer smiles.
He knows you're self-demanding.
Depressions and denials in the symptomatic trials.
Playing accordion at the Landing.
Shudder through the dunes, and like an arsonist in ruins you'll be lucky if you're barely standing.
Dig the deepest psycho hole.
Emerge like a grave-robbing Seminole with tomahawk and rifle on your back,
Both hands cut off and acid in your hemp rope sack.
Tipping over boats we stole,
Beached on sand and muddy shoals.
No Putnam County angels sent it back.
The locks were changed. Our souls turned charcoal black.