Brokered Bones

So, this is the familiar story -- tried, true, and trodden -- of a blood clot that travelled to the eye socket. The place to be, the place to get a ride to. If you can spare it. Can I share your air, I'm going the same way. Just over the hill, through the woods, to the depths of your soul, to the very end of me. There's an end in there somewhere. But in the mean time, here's five bucks for gas and an air freshener.

And while we're on the way, we can pick up one of my friends. We'll call him Capillary Frank. It's not his real name and he doesn't have a face, anymore. The dogs were let loose, I guess. Someone let them out. And someone wrote a song trying to identify the culprit. They write a lot of songs about a lot of things. They'll never run out of notes or ideas. But we're flat out of luck and you can't repair that with a pump.

So kick, kick, kick. You're down on your luck and two feet in the grave. Four more to go. Can you spare the air? It's just ripe for breathing. It's just riping for cutting through that beautiful sunset. And when's the last time anyone's ever seen a sunrise? It's a fabulous sight, or so the post cards I keep getting say.

Old whiskers pale the mountain chatter on the way to the eye socket. It's clumping up and going down for seconds. Finely imported and finally important. Finally over. Just come on over, the phone's been ringing in my ears. It's your familiar scent and I can't collect the smell anymore.

Were you going my way or coming right for me?