“this is not all we are”
the familiar refrain rings;
“beyond the pale a new life awaits”
holds out hope for the hopeless,
but i find it harder these days
to look past the mere matter
and see what lies beyond
with my vision obscured
by beer/wine/whisky
and my desire hijacked
by greed/lust/pleasure;

so the beyond disappears
in its very invisibility,
and the present intrudes
by its extreme tangibility,
filling my senses to the max,
demanding my attention.

waves crash near my
far to long removed shore
vacation under still black sky

She wasn’t the most beautiful thing too look at
but she could catch your eye
like a diamond speck floating in a snowdrift
on a frozen winter morning.

Her voice was not a singer’s voice
but it spoke so perfectly, so beautifully,
that a philistine such as I could
hardly comprehend her utterings.

But alas, her temerity opposed
my trepidation so extremely that I,
disheartened and forlorn, am left
on a frozen winter morning,
sifting through the snowbanks
for another diamond speck

Ah, to sing but a note
that I could play back again.

A tape to prove I sung it
A proof of lyrics past

Ah, to listen to my dying words
Forever.

Imagine a day spent
in pure, twisted agony
based completely on
perception.

Imagine the pain of
knives through hands when
there’s naught but a
sharpie drawing on knuckles

Imagine a flame burning
toes, burning tendons
when only a cat brushes
heavy on your feet

Imagine a morning
of crying for no one
when everyone’s out
in the living room, waiting
to say good morning to you.

Why do you torture yourself so?

Why do you always imagine?

In with the old
and out with the new
I’m looking forward to
trying something crude,
trying something old
that’s never been tried before;

perhaps for this year,
the thing to do
will be to resolve
to not do anything new,
to hold on to the things of yore
not caring if they are a bore.

No rest for the righteous
as we defend our keep and country
while the Queen attempts to castle
even though that move is against the rules
and frankly, doesn’t make any
God
Damn
Sense

No rest for the righteous
while the meek jaywalk for miles
across country not familiar too them,
hoping that the cops don’t stop
poor men with torn shoes
but a penchant for outdoor dancing

No rest for the righteous
while the wicked never
seem to sleep
anyway.

No rest for the righteous
until they Clock
Out.

Walking through each other’s dreams,

The tattered streets will let you know I was there

first

No matter how hard he tries

He cannot see himself as real as you do you

You and your pure mornings

The heavens will not call out for you

Do you think crows dream about the color of their feathers ?

The immigrant’s dream sits on your front porch

hopeful

Your smile brings tidings of a victory

for a moment he feels like he can bask in the glow of

your sweet delusions

Like a sudden powerful jolt

he feels his youth

millions of little fireworks shooting through his veins

all his tomorrows pigmented with soft pastels

He would like to stay there with you

but, it is only a beautiful lie

Fie! Fie!
Unmask the short injustices you’ve come to find
Fie! Fie!
Show the world the lies that it has got behind!
Fie! Fie!
Fall with the house of Usher, Die with Mr. Poe
Fie!
Even if it changed anything,
we’d never know.

hucker and pucker
and haggly hock
flicker and twitter
and elephant stop

the songs in kids books have gone
downhill – ever since suess passed on
the rhymes just don’t do

Note To Self:
When playing music,
don’t forget to play
the important parts:

and your wine-
kissed lips supplied
the rest.

i want to r
ip yo
ur
skin into pi
eces and
i
want
to
squee
ze
you until our
mole
cules
bond
and
we
or
gasm
and o
ur
he
ar
t
s
st
op

He told me that he saw himself on fire
I never understood the things he’d say
But never once did I call him a liar
When there’s no sense, what sense would that make?

He’d always come inside the Chevy freezing
He never seemed to know just what to wear
His T-shirt to his coat, a mere allusion
His blue skin could make a Martian stop and stare

He talked as grand as one could ever wager
High-minded as any man you’d ever find
And when he walked, he always walked un-faltered
as if he was someone you should get behind

I heard he died a week ago this evening
I heard he was high-minded ’till the end
With a book of poems in hand, he found his calling
he caught a bumper for someone he hardly called ‘friend’

He told me that he saw himself on fire
I never understood the things he’d say
But never once did I call him a liar
When there’s no sense, what sense would that make?
And after all, he set himself on fire
saving someone else for someone else’s mistake

The beautiful bastard