call me dali, while I melt this clock.

alarm clock. tick.
tick.

and when my eyes open. I always wonder.
what ever happened to the tock. tock.
tock.
like a lock. I'll pick it with words.
while I play my pen like a broken harp.
because the strings are too rusty
for the guitar she bought for me.

and I remember.
when I woke up to the ac. buzzin'.
and that smell. when she'd tell me the coffee
wouldn't do me no good. but she still dipped the sugar
in. and sang like piano keystrokes.
that van gogh couldn't paint if he had another ear to lend
and we're all diamonds. I'm nothing special.

but she'd speak to me specially.
and now when I wake up on sunday mornings
and look across the street. and see those sunday
morning saints doing all their saintly things. yea.
it makes me weep. because I remember those
sunday mornings. where she'd wake me. a kiss on the cheek.
bacon.eggs.and grits. it's time to roll.
and man. I'd don my lime green suit.
with riding shotgun in that riviera. while that man named
olsteen would speak on the radio. and her.
she'd have her hands to the sky and her eyes closed.
my grandma man. I could've sworn I was gonna die one day.

that was before she told me she'd live forever.
and before I got that call that told me she lied.

and the beer doesn't taste as good when the salt
comes from the tears of that day. when heaven drifted
a little further from grace- and I was left waiting.
waiting.

raptures and old buck's bayou road.
and it's easiest to just say it.
in life. some memories. man.
they never erode.