Semper Fi
Do or Die
I hear them shouting
marching waving
banners, waving guns
and making sure
that every one is
quite aware they’re here
to tear in to the
soul
of the situation

The marching feet
tell stories
worth a million words
a step
(left right left)
of blood on tracks,
of blood on hands
and cities left
to burning

but Semper Fi
Do or Die
they’ll shout
with every step
(left right left)
until they done
or did, and there’s
not a banner left

I don’t know what life you’re looking for
and I don’t care what you think of mine
but I’m happy splitting a bottle of scotch
in a basement on the South side
and making crude jokes and playing guitar
every other Friday.

Maybe that’s not the life you’re after
but it sure works fine for me.
Now grab a glass and find some ice,
you can’t go drinking scotch warm, you know?

There is blood running from the cuts on my hands
It is inconsistent blood. It drips and drools capriciously
down arms to thighs to knees to ankles
to feet to toes to the cold hard floor
to the drain in the corner of this public restroom
down the eternity or instance
of a sewage pipe

The smell is a terrible smell
it smells not of death, but of life leaving the body
as it wastes itself to nothingness
before the mirror of a Seven-Eleven.
All the world is spinning, though
it feels as though it’s stopping.

The muse would be perfect had I a feather-pen
to dab in to my liquids. The circumstance
is not so perfect.

I can only sigh and consider
working a dead-end job in a burger joint
(or gas station):

This must be
just what that
feels like

Good morning
Don’t wake me
it’s morning
I’m busy
exploring
the spaces
just between
the bedsheets
and pillows
or rather
the visions
that manifest
sometimes
I guess I’ll
be busy
all morning
don’t wake me

…one more thing

Good morning

I imagine that our life
is a lot like a Coltrane record

good strong chords
crisp clear drums
solid as solid gets bass
and some mook on the sax going apeshit

Then the piano takes a solo
and it’s good and strong
and the drums take a solo
and it’s crisp and clear
and the bass takes a solo
and it’s solid as solid gets
and then the sax comes in again
and here he is, going apeshit

I guess you’re a lot
like one of those guys
(probably the bass player)
and well, if that’s really how it works,
I just got one thing to say:

Thanks for letting me play sax
all this time

Furiously would be
a good adjective
for the
act of
ripping your spine out
through the base of your torso
with my teeth.

It may sound messy,
but truth is the very sight of you
makes me furious.

So come and stand quietly
while I eviscerate you wholly.
Alternatively, leave.
There is no other alternative.

I drink your poison
and relish in the thought of you
drinking my poison, just
barely hanging on to your
very own guts

I breathe your toxic gasses
sucking them deep and choking
while reaching out to strangle you.
How I long wrap my fingers
right around the pipe that
keeps you moving.

and all the while that
acid smile does
wonders to the sensory:
The poison refreshing  as it
 forces an ending on a body.

I drink it down and dream,
lazily and lethargically,
hoping with every slipping instant
that you die by my power,
all while dying by yours.

Starlight catches wind
of pools of water droplets
shimmering like stars

There are not two
thousand miles between our comings
and our goings,
but it takes two trips
to come and go
completely.

Feet blistered hands raw
from running the walking
stick at probably just four
miles or so. We can’t be too
hasty after all.

Someone lost count after some
of those miles but we
aren’t so long in to the
coming, and as far as things
seem to go, the going
may be rather slow,
so maybe let’s not worry so much
about maps and the like.

Maybe let’s take a moment
or two
to stretch, scratch, and
retie that loose pair of sandals

When I run out of all this
hard-earned easy-spent
cash of mine, I’m gonna
end up just like one of them
laid back Philly bums.

I’m gonna chill.
Right on that park bench
with those sunglasses on
and that old suit coat
buttoned all the way,
and when you pass me
I won’t even ask for cash.

Them laid back Philly bums
know just what it means,
I guess.

They get what’s good,
and sometimes with the
taxis trying to kill a body,
and the buses not caring
if they do, I guess a little
live music and sunshine
is good enough for me.

just like one of them laid back Philly bums.

You seem so very hopeful
with that
smile stitched so carefully
just underneath your
nose,
where your scowl is supposed to be
But please, just gnash your
jowls,
I’ve no reason to fear you today,
as it’s so hard to
hit
someone a thousand miles away

And even if that smile
was
as perfect as you claim,
it’s impossible to
touch
you.

You’re a thousand miles away.

Sore fingers slide across
controls, across switches,
they’ve been going far to long
and now they’re crashing
through the atmosphere
and how they’ll ever get back
I don’t know.
But even then, they’ve
got a long, long way to go.

There are stars
and they’re burning
somewhere, billions of
miles away, and
I see them.

But there’s a haze
(at least)
between us and them
and all things considered,
the red road flares
out-beautiful
the stars,
at least tonight.

some brilliances
easily covered
with a thick sheet and
a roll of gray duck
(duck)
(duct?)
(duck)
tape. Some
brilliances impossible
to shade.

there is a desert in every soul.
A barren spot where tumbleweeds
tumble like a cheap prop in an
old Italian-made
Americana piece.

Where animals scratch and paw
the other animals’ burrows,
intent on only consuming so they
may live another day to
consume.

The sun never sets, but it
is a cruel sun. It burns and
boils the skin and blood. It
feels no compassion, and
knows nothing of the truth.

It does not rain here. It only
damps the flesh so the dust
can coat more thoroughly.
There is no respite in these sands.

Mirages hover in every distance
whispering softly of memories past,
making claims on futures will
never come.

It is here I next will meet you.
It is here I see you yet.
In this desert of my soul
I will leave you to be buried
under years of rolling sand.

I will cheat when we play board games
and I will eat the last piece of cake
even though we made it for your
birthday

I will park like a jackass just to
see you
roll your eyes,
and I will forget to pick up milk
/eggs
/bread
/soda
every time I come home. Ever.

But I’ll never ask for that lunch
you owe me, and I’ll
never charge gas for that ride
to Chicago and back.
I never remember the two bucks
of mine it cost for those
cigarettes of yours
but you’re god damn right
I’ll bitch when you smoke them

I’ve never been good with
mathematics, but I’ve always
had a decent eyeball for things,
and things seem to line right up
to me.

But hey,
feel free
to check my work.

There is something wrong
with this picture. It hangs
at a slant, the glass is
broken, with chips out of the
frame here and there, not
to mention the split across
the bottom from the
last time it slipped from its
hook and hit the floor
because the nail was never
set quite right;
the holes in the wall can
tell you all about that.

Oh, but the sun in the
clear blue sky, and the
old blue truck with the
topper on, those look
alright I guess.

And me and you out
front just smiling.
That part looks just fine.

Perhaps we’ll keep this
hanging after all.

Is fun to visit
but I wouldn’t
want to live there.

There’s a girl in the corner
in the back
she’s the only one that’s dancing
but she’ll dance all by herself
and all night,
I would wager,
(Well, I’d probably lose that
bet on a technicality, but still)
and I’d put a lot of money down.

and it’s a funny thing, that
she’s the only one who’s really
moving,
‘cuz she’s the only one I’d
like to dance with anyway.

There’s a certain sort of freedom
being the only one in a
crowded show and
dancing.

I won’t dance with her.
I wouldn’t want to ruin it.

(bum bum bum)

there are thirty people in a basement
heads banging, fists pumping, guitars
screaming far too loud for the concrete
and old mattresses to handle so well

(bum bum bum)

But here I sit just watching, arms
crossed, headphones on, box of
donations for the bands in my lap,
and I only have one thought to think:

This is what music
is all about.

(bum bum bum)