you never live anymore
you just lie around
and ask for stories
prolly
cuz your socks are too short
and you claim its for style
for style
for style
and asking for stories
seems like you forgot about
the things you smoked
and drank and did
back when you knew
how to live
its a myth i swear
it goes seat
pant
seat
i let go of the ledge
but fly i do not.
oh right… i have to be willing to take chances
a fly by
sounds altogether to me
to be
i hope
quite a bit better than
a drive by
When i fall i
need a net not
cement
this world is made of concrete
thebuildingsthetreesthestreetsthepeople
composed of stone
unyieldingandunrelenting
ready for someone
to fall so they can display their strength
so please don’t be concrete
(and i, too, will
resist petrification).
there used to be only
a table between us
with words etched in wood
but these days there is an
ocean to cross
our words now electric.
the railroad tracks behind my
old house
remind me of the roads i
used
to
want to take
and how i left many of them behind
to write and to run
writing brings my fingers joy
and running brings me delusions
filled with grandeur
i don’t write too good
my england nor so too powerful
but i’m probably the best runner in the whole wide
world
when i run
beside the railroad tracks
behind my new house
my fingers are happy now
i need some delusions
wants you
to have a terrible time
so you will call me drunk,
wanting to come home.
(who am i kidding all of me wants this.)
under heaven
everyone has one
some people have three
mine was a purple penut… a canvass… a Caveness
and they make you write
and they inspire you
and some of them inspire even though
they write long
and miserable
line
after
line
so we converge and write
the sieve and the sand
