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