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In this city it always rains. There are embers
in the streets but the water won't wash
away the flames.  Sky cries like children,
begging for respite.  We are Resolve.  

Butch and hard femme knocking on
your windowsill for fresh apple pie and a garage
with an automatic door and three cars piled high.  
We open word documents to process all

the reality spilling from our teevees.
We hope for the days of armegeddon
and the life in the world that came
all over our faces.  The flames risen

from gas stoves coffee shops stuck
alcoves bridges, stone, arches and old mills
build the beat that beats the down pour
and we want more, yeah we want more.