She walks next to me
like she'll walk next to me
forever.

Breathe. Breathe (more).
(Move closer) to your death and (farther away) from your youth
(Open your mouth) and (taste) the stale (air).
Transfer your weight onto a (firm surface).
Push your (face) against the glass.
Do you (feel) closer? (Now?) (How about now?)
How about you (try to forget your feelings and run?)
(Turn) and (scream) and (fall) and (grow) and (give) and (burn) and (sing) and (glean) and (die) and (fall) and (in love) and (with you).

The wind is shaking the trees and blowing through the hair
of people walking to their destinations
like the world is going to end if they don't make it
in time.

I cautiously say this because
I am one of them, running from place
to place -
anxiety storms around me like the gust.

I imagine those who don't make it in time,
frozen cold by the closing of a door.
Or brokenhearted by a hand in someone else's.
What happens after that?
What happens if these people don't make it in time?

God knows time won't wait.

I truly believe happiness
is listening to your hometown heroes
play their final show at their favorite venue
and crying with them as they play their final song.

And everyone in the crowd sings along.

It's always been a dream of mine-
a dream as big as the state of Nebraska,
but they've taught me, my hometown heroes,
that hope IS a good thing.

And my hometown is Lincoln. And my hometown is where dreams come true.

Let the neon lights speak for themselves.
They'll sing my eulogy, I know that for sure.

"What a bright man he was,
always making sure we illuminated the downtown sidewalks
for the boozers and the streetwalkers to see.
See? He wasn't so bad after all-
he helped ease pain".

When you bury me,
bury me with my favorite drink,
and nourish the soil with *****.

There's a movement in the air
that's causing everyone to
wake up before the sun rises
hold hands with their hatred
make a painting of all there is to love
listen to a crescendo of anything that makes sound
kiss the hands of everyone they met
travel the map to find the lost
and finally
skip to the last chapter in their books
to read their happy ending.

I lit a fire tonight
upon my grandfather's old typewriter.

I kindled it with all of his old pencils,
his favorite ballpoint pen,
his yellow-paged novels,
his newspaper cutouts of his past successes.

Hell, I even threw in the bookshelf.

And, just like that,
it was mortal history.
I did it for the **** of it.

I mean, if it was REALLY important,
it would be sprawled all over webpages.
Sprawled all over online searches and
digital databases.

Trust me, grandpa,
the future looks much better in High Definition.