I95 - someone on my machine about the weather leo francis dissapointed in his 'boi but his voice second hand still beautiful a Labrador claiming a track across the streetball court, tongue callahan buying light cigarettes at the arabian's one-stop, the gas its lowest yet just two blocks they're showing moving pictures, another one about The War with sean penn a box set, poets, drone on echoing down an empty dormatory, "never had dreamed the extent of the magic" february, warm rain. a tee shirt in the mix, an old black fellow walking with a walker on main people talking over that 3am when thay had stormed the bastille of the small town, taunting security one beer in the fridge, four-pac of chocolate pudding, leftovers, coke half before a blank page like new year before the notebook on the bathroom floor 22 boys on the makeshift field tearing sports, brotherhood, pride, passage hinton and his art growing dead plants pushing charcoal fingers, finding rivers cities in the horizen cities in setted sun photographs of her in the mail lines from the bible, meaning well scripture on the bookshelf calling at 3:30 Jesus and my brother on the machine duet new music for no one playing just under slighly left, through the sheets calander red eye glowing and frozen, ticking and tocking, hand-writing no one can take on the world no one is inside my world the world, flat, isn't rotating, challenge you: science someone on the machine about interstate 95