the sieve and the sand

All respect to the man who
calls a quarter tank of gas
a twenty dollar bill
a travel-sized tool box
a length of rope
and an acoustic guitar
‘Being Prepared for Anything’

like a child in his new tree house
the sun refuses to come out
returning home only to wash its
hands before returning to whence
it came

leaving all those who enjoy its
presence

longing for better days

As I sit in my car seat
screaming
at the top of my saxophone’s
lungs and I
hope that I
catch the ear of
someone
wandering by,

nobody cares enough
to even call
the cops, at 10pm
on a school night.
So I sit in my car seat
and scream
at the top of my saxophone’s lungs

my little friend and i
we don’t get along
these days
and if it doesn’t work
we’ll go back to our
throne
and i see the world
and it is shrinking
every day
but still too far
across for me to
roam

Steady with that light!
we have to check that he’s receptive
can he hear us?
can you hear us?
can you see us?
are you there?

Pulse is normal, steady breathing
but I don’t think that he’s seeing
any of us, and if
this weather holds -
these heavy snows -
then I suppose
that this could be a problem.

looking back, fifty years out
inept professors will make
their names off our angst.

I don’t want
to be poor;
I don’t want
to be rich;

I don’t want
to be bored;
I don’t want
to be boring;

I don’t want
to be listless;
I don’t want
to be committed;

I don’t want
to be responsible;
I don’t want
to be useless;

I don’t want
to be my father;
I don’t want
to be alone;

But all of this exact knowledge
as to what I do not want
is in no sense equal
to having the faintest idea
as to what I do want
or who I want to be.

I want to be cool
I want to be fun

I want to be respected
I want to be a good son

I want to have a reason
I want to have a plan

I want to be liked
I want to be your man

I want to be envied
I want to have a heart

I want to be cultured
I want to be smart

I want to be chained
I want to be free

I want to be rich
I want life to be easy.

But all of these small wants
only show a mosaic
of my impenetrable, true desire,
be that God, purpose, faith
truth, sex, money, power
friends, family, love,
or what?

that
you you you you ‘re
my hero.

last night’s mist
gives way to morning’s
green grass.

given the lack of feelings
you have for your leggings and
aging cats i try to pet but instead
move my fingers vertebrae by vertebrae
bump after bump knowing cats
weren’t made to live 19 people years
but you’ll bat them around

He thinks to himself
“Am I dying?
A most curious feeling is this.”
but deep in his soul
he yet fights for control
of the cognizance, rightfully his

He’s certainly
fed up with vying
for the presence of mind that he seeks
but his thoughts are delayed,
he knows that he has strayed,
and now only leans to remiss

While he thinks to himself
with his picture of health,
“Even Death would be better than this.”

what to do
what to do
what will i
ever, ever do
but sit here
and watch
and play
and dodge away
the entire day.

My legs they
ache,
with longing.
To hit the open country road
and ride until the sun comes up
and everything on Earth is
slowly stirring to their feet.

To find a small clearing
near a pond, but not too
near a pond, where I
can take a bath and
tuck myself inside my
sleeping bag amidst a
plethora of painful
rocks to rest on.

It’s poetry, I promise.
As long as you don’t
think about the
hunger and the
biting flies
and the long ride
back home.

But then, there’s
the real poetry, anyway.

What do you want?
What do you really want?

How does it add up
to all the things you
think that you’ve
accomplished?

What do you think you want?
Do you even know?

Have you even considered
the possibility that
you’ve got everything you
ever really wanted?

Because odds are,
you probably do.

Or odds are,
you don’t.

Either way,
you don’t know anyway,
so stop asking me for handouts.

i want to smoke
i want to swear
i want to escape,

the hum-drum,
ordinary,
day to day;

to find more
to do more
to be more,

but for now
i’d settle
for just a good smoke.

the cut of
Steel strings feels
so nice beneath these
aching fingers

remember before
these cardboard houses
stood in the way?
you saw so much less
but had it all figured out
didn’t you?
please don’t break
all that i’ve made
please don’t give up
on all my ideas
for anything,
anything.

near silent streams
dance over every little rock
behind your cabin

i’m thanking the Lord
you’re not quite quiet

Insipid would have been
the word of the day.

but,

certain events have
transpired in the past
sixteen hours, which,
in their turn, have
effectively changed the
word of the day to
Refreshing.

n: the game we play to keep away
those girls who are no longer
repulsed by our nose picking
booger eating habits which
we used to find so effective in
elementary school instead we’ve
been forced to graduate to
glorious sphincter artistry

I love new experiences.
New names and faces.
New dives and dialogues.
New nights on new streets
heading towards some
new horizon.

I love new experiences.
But sometimes, I
really want the old ones back.

We would speak for hours
or I’d listen and
you’d tell me all about it.
And it made sense that
it worked that way,
and I never asked to stop
and reconsider the
usual course of events.

But what is one to do
when the truth of every
matter is disputed by
cold hard fact?

I’m sorry dear,
But I just can’t
believe you anymore.

It’s a double-edged sword.
The sky is finally clear enough for
me to see the stars,
But the heat has dissipated
from the lack of cloud-cover.

But I am not dismayed;
A wise man once told me,
you can’t have everything.
Where would you put it?