i'm pretty sure that a man with a gun in his hand decides the future
that's something that i read in a book one time
a picture of the man with a day-blue face
he walks around in the mountains above my place
like frankenstein's monster, he's sad and cold
i see all the mistakes that i made in him
with the last years that i have been drinking
i invented him and now he's following me
through ice patches and pine trees
i hear his words
in the sounds of birds,
spring rain,
beethoven,
and engines.
my lover's words,
these track horses,
my mother,
and solitude.
he is chance.
he is luck,
he is faith, and providence, and destiny.
"and now is never far from what he is,"
says the man to another.
"indeed; and he can never go some place that he isn't,"
said the other.
yeah, i'm pretty sure that a man with a gun in his hand
decides the future.
decides my future.
