The Air Is Getting To Me Poem by Timmy Curran

A perfect fit for a wandering mind,
aren't we all in these days and times
They call it surfing, but its simply gas
mental burping and the time has passed
A dark lit alley, pickeled with themes
Ranging so bright, none notice the thieves
Contradictions galore and still time for more,
a twenty-four hour store, longing for love, for hate,
for war, for peace, begging for feeling,
itching the scars never meant for healing
What would they say, the greatest of them,
they have a voice, though most are long dead
He is there, he is there, the ghost in the vision
of dreams, a glorious beam, the serpent
of all these conditions, Adam and Eve,
and all their biographers, sent to the leaves,
the remedy to sweaters to short sleeves
Blessed be the day when they were all cursed,
redeemed by the way billions of feelings
could be continually disbursed
Ragging, lagging, sagging under the weight
of sins that have been dragging
Brain to eye to the fingers tap and
always the slap of an ungodly tourist trap,
that none could bear to admit the way
it all became facts