Ode to Clint Eastwood
This is the land I love.
When I love it is like I am dying
to make a very moving story.
When I move it is like I am dying
to make a story that you love.
Skyline, stranger, bullet hole of light,
they say there is nothing
but unjust clouds to break us
into morning. Not the past,
a promise, a polygraph tricked.
Not bad ibuprofen, not Namaste.
We escape to perfect, empty streets,
angry women. We never escape.
Clint, your very name
sounds like scowling at the sunset.
Do I feel lucky? Only if you do.