the bricks are tear gas, grades, jargon, batons, reactionary reporters, psychiatrists, profitable mega-jails, and snobby lawyers' wives the bricks are thick forms, background checks, tanks,
the monster's not in the wood shed or under the bed: it's in our heads, critiquing the world and judging ourselves, always on the look-out for ways to get ahead the monster's not
a thick broth of blood, pain-killers, THC, and anti-psychotics brain functions floating around like vegetables paranoid potatoes amnesiac carrots melancholy pasta dancing to the music
mountains airplanes and rain-drops pay him tribute on their way to the ground he soon puts down volcanic rebellions. snakes have learned his lesson. he sculpts grand canyons,
no fertile farms or hopping hot spots, just sagebrush for miles and miles and miles, hard sparkling soil and cactii diamonds guarded and prickly from long trial and error