In a forest of stone
  underneath the corporate canopy
  where the sun
  rarely
  filters
  down
  the ground
  is not so soft
  not so soft
    they build buildings to house people
  making money
  or they build buildings to make money
  off of housing people
  it's true
  like a lot of things are true
  I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor
  that is not so soft
  I look up
  it looks like the buildings are burning
  but it's just the sun setting
  the solar system calling an end
  to another business day
  eternally circling signally
  the rythmic clicking on and off
  of computers
  the pulse
  of the american machine
  the pulse
  that draws death dancing
  out of anonymous side streets
  you know
  the ones that always get dumped on
  and never get plowed
  it draws death dancing
  out of little countries
  with funny languages
  where the ground is getting harder
  and it was
  not
  that
  soft
  before
    those who call the shots
  are never in the line of fire
  why
  where there's life for hire
  out there
  if a flag of truth were raised
  we could watch every liar
  rise to wave it
  here
  we learn america like a script
  playwright
  birthright
  same thing
  we bring
  ourselves to the role
  we're all rehearsing for the presidency
  I always wanted to be
  commander in chief
  of my one woman army
    but I can envision the mediocrity
  of my finest hour
  it's the failed america in me
  it's the fear that lives
  in a forest of stone
  underneath the corporate canopy
  where the sun
  rarely
  filters
  down
  and the ground
  is not so soft