Waking Up In Waseca

Cold brass slips and drops the weight
Of a ten ton pendulum that
Swings so gently with it's deadly
Precision. The left peak is heaven
And the right one is a fiery hell.

Without it's indecision the arms and legs
Cannot move a shriveled muscle, even
To wake the dying town that sleeps
Below it. What good would pointing
And blaming your uncle do anyway?

In the middle there is no voice,
No way to shout familiar phrases and
Belt out songs that we can hear in our
Head without even thinking. But old
Melodies were always the sweetest to you.

Shop class was much too distracting anyway,
What with all the noise and the dust and
The breasts and the death. It couldn't replace
What was already ticking and swinging
And trying to tell me what I needed to know.

Everywhere it goes the wallpaper knows
That it's only showing spaces in between
The highest of highs and the lowest of lows.
But when it lets go and comes crashing down,
The pendulum starts digging into the ground.