Welcome to the attic of how I like to see things
You’ll see that the reviews were right, it’s a pleasantly navigable mess
Full of surprises like Spike Jonze making soup in the corner
Striking the perfect balance between realism and the taste of plump overripe pumpkin
Look at that figurative dead baby in the sky, said Mr. Cantor
It’s beautiful because it was conceived during the summer of much rhetorical solar activity
But as it was projectile-born it missed the crib
Are we going to let that get in the way of anything ever?
That would be counter-reproductive.
And Mr. Cantor took your hand and flew towards the setting sun
As if he had a bone to pick with it from their outwardly privileged childhood
In a town with overstaffed day care centers
I had to take him out of the picture
I have to watch the zaniness in this creaky floored attic
I can’t afford to have past injustices running around in abstract anger
They are going to wake us all up
And so I close up shop at sundown
And go listen to some breezy old songs
On my iPod with scratches all over its back
Just like the city it calls home