My father used to boast about the miles he\'d accrued
Upon his truck\'s speedometer, with pedal under shoe.
\"You know this things been to the moon! And then I drove it back!\"
He\'d smile and nod nostalgically, but pain shone through the cracks.
A mix of pride and longing that was different each time spoke,
The incantation confusing- bruised, he sought the yoke.
Like he wished again to leave, and this time, not return.
Like the moon was made of cheese, and earth- she only burned.
The men that are my family are caught up in a knot,
Not excepting myself from it- like Gord-ian I\'m caught.
Trapped between a story, diving, heaving clouds above!
And truth coming the other way- a pressure blind to love.
Does space whisper sweet comforts? Make life seem all more whole?
Make you feel a moment strong? Shore up broken soul?
Why are you all truckers? Ever driving far from home?
Why does that sound wonderful? Why fearful of the loam?
Hey old man, drop anchor here! the sea-sickness subsides!
Step off the catamaran, find footing in our lives.
Abandon your illness \'bout a man and how \'es made,
Mother culture always lies; She\'s not a bed we made.
Hey you there, weary astronauts;
Please come on back to earth.
The man inside the mirror\'s dead.
Makes waste of all that\'s worth.