Shadows at night are scare enough
but night seems to do just as well when
hiding we miscreants and faltering ones

So does occupancy to the life’s direction
So does distortion on the guitar’s scream

I have walked a mile the wrong way
and it made me want to stop and
never walk again.

I hope I have not lived the wrong way
(too far, at least).

I have not wont for settling
(so far, at least).

Daylight breeds shadows as cesspools breed
insects, but they are few and far between
and a boon, not a burden,
comparatively. Particularly in this
heat.

And best to be occupied than occupying
And best to at least be playing

And when I walked the mile back
to the start of the whole thing I
was refreshed and renewed.

I have been living, so far
(and that’s enough for now)

But still, I won’t be settling

Earlier this evening I happened past the lake
where I learned you were deathly afraid
of seaweed
but we both waded in anyway
and I think that’s sort of
the whole thing in a nutshell
except
seaweed can’t hurt you
most of the time
(but I guess the snappers can)

I never knew you had a thing for scalping your favorite patrons
or feeding the crackhead on the street
and I certainly never took you for a fighter
though goodness knows you could never be the bigger man

As people some hide
in the nebulous nature
of most things

They are protected
by the general failure
of those around them

And so long as the bar
is not set too high
why, there’s no need to
jump
if you can just lift your leg
a little

Most people would do better
as dogs, I think

When dogs lift their legs
they mean it,
at least

Sometimes I
fucking hate a Hammond Organ
but that’s an off-day
mostly

An average human being
can spend
without food
(as long as he
remains hydrated)
approximately
forty-five days
if the weather is
alright,
before his body
runs out of
muscle
to absorb
and starts in
on the organs and
such, then the
brain, when he
will probably
suffer
irreversible
brain damage

An average human being
does not need
to experience
this for any
reason

You can cut a man’s throat
and he’ll feel it for
the rest of his life and
you can stab him and
he’ll bleed until he stops
and he’ll never forget it

You can cut a mans’ soul
and he may never know
it and those cuts are
deeper than anything and
maybe he doesn’t bleed
or die but maybe he does

Maybe he’s never the same
again.

And while one cuts with one’s
knife and one does one’s
work so perfectly, another
makes the mark with song or
sonnet and maybe he slips
a time or two, and maybe that
is half the point somehow

That a man can break and
stand on both feet is
astounding

That a man can endure
and never move again:
double that,
and easily.

Some pictures are valueless
some less or more than average
and the adage only makes the rule
for one picture, anyway

Some pictures can cost you dear
and leave you broke and homeless
or alone in the world, at least

Some pictures are worth it
just to stretch with silly-putty
and laugh at on a rainy day

some pictures are priceless,
though,
and maybe those few on your pinboard
need not be appraised just
yet.

Dozens of minutes
millions of miles of cable
half that in free-air
bit by bit
and yet
you elude
like the tiniest mouse
in the largest game of Mousetrap
and the cage never falls right
anyway

I fished a ticket from my pocket
but the numbers were all wrong
agian and I guess I mean when it’s
tickets
I can never win.

It is a collection of broken fingers
scratching helplessly on locked doors
legal documents flying everywhere as
a briefcase had been thrown. It was
just your personal failures again.

The door clicks with misgivings as
it rocks in its frame, but gives no
ground. The bolt is fast and true.
The nob won’t help you either, no
matter how loose the latch.

Another finger breaks and falls as
helpless as its brothers and sisters.
It scratches, too, just like it was
taught those years ago. Keep scratching
and something might give. Except the
bolt is fast and true. And the nob
won’t help you either, latch be damned.

it’s the early nights that kill
sometimes
with the curtains down
long shapes on the wall
short devils out the window
a stink permeating

Reached but did not reach
no softness beneath fingers
icy wind and bite
though spring it be
the world is silent
sometimes

Signals sent though
no correspondence returned
transmitter on full
bottom can’t be reached
sometimes

I saw you standing
watching five folks push a stalled car
from one side of the street to
another and your clothes
were baggier than I remember
and I bet you haven’t eaten much
these past few years
and I never knew you well
but I guess nobody did really
and I understand
why sometimes
it’s easier to pretend
that some folks are just
dead.

Took a ride to South Bend
last February
to see ’em

Was a looter and a killer
most days
but a lover
some of the rest
and a fighter
every waking moment

Was a monster sometimes,
too

Got down round seven
on a Tuesday and
had an hour
to spend
inside

Never came back out again,
though

Still there,
probably

I know it’s coming around again
but
I never seem to duck
low enough

His jawline
trembled

Hopefully I
reached out

He wouldn’t
or couldn’t

He stood
as stone

His jawline
trembled
just so

And I
tried

But he
was too far
gone

Oh darlin’
there’s that song again
and we missed it
the last time and
this station only comes though
every so often on
this stretch of byway
and the signal’s strong,
too, so if you could
reach over and turn it
up, I’ll slow down a bit
so the speakers keep pumpin’
and we’ll see if we can’t
at least make it to the
chorus before it

These lives of yours,
intangible ghosts,
much like the summer was
to Escher

No color to dictate
season, nor ice nor
snow nor falling leaves
as if the summer
always was

these lives, though,
are the dossier of a fool:
and at least Escher’s,
when jammed together,
fit right.

Rain come to hail
and a long way back
and no ride on the way
and a bit lip
and a grin and
a bear
and step after step
before home
and that’s it
and thank goodness
there’s that
at least