smokestack blues

The stones can't hold a blurred photograph of nothing but stars and a cold blurry night. They rise into the sky to grasp at blackness and shake away the feel of the billowing clouds. The smokestacks make me think of all the packaged pieces and the devil's dark fingers reaching up to tear away the rain. Expressions on the faces of ladies in the blues are keeping with the timing of the soulful summer sounds. Stacking smoke on top of smoke to sleep inside of chrome, they laugh at all the colors that don't care who they are. Bridge: Out here there's no tomorrow; only an extension of today And when the sun burns out again the circling birds have no idea. The smokestacks make me think of all the packaged pieces and the devil's dark fingers reaching up to tear away the rain.