And we push ourselves up towards the air.

To think of Metropolis: its Graham’s number of stories
and oceans of morning coffee,
the days we build the castle in the clouds
made of cigarette smoke of the nights.
The red headline psalms scream
of bridges built only to be burned down,
of our time spent kissing lips and kissing ass,
infinity gathered in stupendous mass.

My fight is the long, long night
and my regular a bar called Dos & Don’ts
where all coming in are the Dos
and the going outs are the Don’ts.
And I’ll find a Do and become a pair of Don’ts
that write the story of escaping Emerald City.

I want to live where the summer’s rule extends to law –
gently fire all my bullets into the sun,
grow as old and wise as the hills, a day at a time
and to my children prove our Belief in Better
was not a relic, it just needed a worthy direction.

They will ask me: “Father…
Where does the sky begin and end?”
And my standard reply will be:
“Behind her eyes.”

And until we meet that day,
we will keep on pushing ourselves
up,
towards the air.