This bay is interrupted (like a young girls daydream is interrupted by her father's angry call)    By the highway that runs through it    and the pulp mill that spits into it    I am flying over asphalt perched on two wheels    the sky tears up but wants to bawl    wind and rain in my face with the stain of yesterdays workday making me dread todays    dead opossums and raccoons and foxes strewn all over the shoulder    I float by without surprise    I've come to expect neglect and decay       I stare at the quiet spectacle of entrails    pushed out and bubbling in the rainbow colored puddles of roadside rain    the remarkable thumbs of opossums    the fire-like fur of the foxes    but I gotta stop it and get on to work I'm gonna be late       the rain is interrupted from it's simple communion with the soil    by the asphalt and the concrete    all those plains of black and gray    where the brown and green ones used to be       I stare through a glass pane    once I'm at that dry din of my dreaded workday    the rain seems resigned to just flowing down their drains    I'm afraid that's how I've become    you're not paid to daydream I hear someone say       Our lives are interrupted    like all those daydreams were as far back as I can recall    from the moment we're born we're in custody    sterile hospitals bright lights needles vaccines    sterile schools white bread force fed whitewashed history    dirty jobs either starve or accept wage slavery    but there's freedom in our visceral history    and it bubbles up like the lava of an ancient memory       I stare at the skyline    there's billboards where trees were    there's warehouses where homes were    there's rivers and understanding run dry    I'd sure like to set fire to some of it    and holler in the glow of it    and make the ghosts of our hope come alive    if not hiding from our own fear we'd find the spirit the guts and the time    to tell each mumbling shadow and each idle arrow    that the future's not written yet    tell each dream invader and every nay sayer    that we were not finished yet    excuse me I was talking or living or dreaming or just being    too bright for the gray malaise of these modern days    to each interruption we'd answer with eruptions    of the lava that bubbles underneath the mundane