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Let the camera pull back till the fullness of the frame is clear and plain |
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Peer into the screen until you see it all like a vision in a crystal ball |
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Let it all fill with smoke |
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Is this somebody's idea of a joke? |
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Let the fixer work until the silver's washed away |
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And take the picture from the tray |
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Look hard at what you see and then remember you and me |
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And let the truth spring free |
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Like a jack-in the box |
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Like a hundred-thousand cuckoo clocks |
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From the Oregon corners to the Iowa corn |
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To the rooms with the heat lamps where the snakes get born |
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Crawl through the tunnel and follow, follow the light north west |
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See that young man who dwells inside his body like an uninvited guest |
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See the tunnel twist |
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Clutch your birth rite in your fist |
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Let the camera do its dirty work down there in the dark |
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Sink low, rise high, bring back some blurry pictures |
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to remember all your darker moments by |
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Permanent bruises on our knees |
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Never forget what it felt like to live in rooms like these |
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From the California coastline to the Iowa corn |
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To the rooms with the heat lamps where the snakes get born |
