i'm sitting listening to what my broken record player has to say to me
but the humming has no secrets to tell except the one about it's long time yearning
to [bad word] a tin can telephone thats wires creep out of second floor suburban windows
like the grass escaping the sidewalks from the cracks below

then again watch, the wires fall
then again watch, as the wires fall

i'm walking listening to what the dirty power lines all have to offer me
but the broken wheel of words that they spin hold that solemn hiding place of nothings
if they had a choice maybe they'd reach forever high into the distance
like so many misplaced words and phrases on the tips of our tongues