on florida, after the fact
they say the tallest thing in the state is a landfill.
fitting, for what are we all but used up things rotting in the sun?
this gilded cityscape even Mike Bell couldn’t escape, the king of
running, the concrete kiss that kept him still.
say this is for the ever expanding list of obituaries i recognize
in the paper, not sure whether to mourn or make note,
we, just a bunch of rich kids with nothing else to do but die
and once, summer was just an afternoon thunderstorm,
just a parade of bicycles in the cul-de-sac
and, back then, we didn’t really know cool
till we heard it on the bus radio, know how to
keep ourselves out of trouble, or at least from
getting caught, say this is for those that did;
for dada and gary, i hear they both in the pen now,
better that than the ground, though, i guess
and for bradley, who hasn’t said dead just yet,
just ain’t been living right lately
see these days, those of us that made it out
be lookin back, how suburbia can swallow you who