The Wake Up Call

I got a real cool rejection slip today
from Big Bridge: "Thanks but nope."
When you "cut loose" experiment dare
protrude drive 60 in the breakdown lane,
feed lyrics to explosions,
eat shrapnel, trap fate's belch,
kick dented soup cans,
sleep under the overpass
with nothing but your dirty clothes
for a cot, we'll talk. When you step
on hubris, smack tradition's crooked nose,
linger in blood puddles gathering crust,
proceed in the eye of the hurt,
act like peppercorns in cookie dough,
drop lyrical bracelets down the toilet,
beat up whole wheat walls
of Mother earth, make fresh bread,
spare no yeast, start to itch
and scratch that one spot
we all decipher in connectedness,
cross true emotion's Nile on your belly
and not the lace pillowcase of a Hallmark card,
remind us that we ache while
we live in your words,
then maybe we'll talk.
When your limo gets totaled,
you take down branches of thin Autumn trees
with a pick-up truck, leave us
with a mess we like but can't put
in some predictable slot,
delete your spell checker,
run like Hell from certainty,
we'll consider keeping your
slimy gray clams of destiny
because their scent will stick.
A bar of soap is pleasantly useless
in removing raw truth.