A ripe Saturday afternoon,
perfect in it’s postcard beauty,
dead leaves shining in the warm-enough-to-wear-a-sweater sunlight.
The wind blows just enough to prove
that wind can still blow on a day like this,
wile the coats and hats we left
on the back seat of the car are forgotten, a passing thought lost
to the momentary respite of a fall
that can’t make up it’s mind.

Under these conditions, all things
are love and life and beauty. Under
these conditions, Everything is a miracle
if you squint your eyes, just right.

There are worse
Fates
than doomed and damned
to live a life of apathy.

Those fates include,
Eternity in Hell, lethal
injection, drowning, cancer,
and having to go every day
knowing that you’ll never
amount to anything.

…Oh, wait.

It’s a rough life out there,
listening to alt-rock records from
the nineties and wishing things
could be they way they used-ta-been,
before you needed rent money every month.

And the coffee you drink doesn’t
percolate, it’s far too fancy for
such Americana to allow. And while
there’s nothing high and mighty about
foreign cars, there’s certainly something
cocky about some of them.

Look, I’m not saying you should
break the law, I’m just saying that
not all dumpsters have locks on them,
and not all the unlocked ones say
“Do Not Occupy.”

Find yourself a new place to stay
if things are so damn difficult.
Dig?

For all the times you
couldn’t stand the barking,
some night you wish
you could hear that old dog bark
one more time

There’s a bunch of people
in a restaurant, at a booth,
and they’ve all got instruments
which is not so strange, considering.

Except they’ve got the instruments
out of cases, with a pair of songbooks
and a jar for tips. Not so strange
except the restaurant doesn’t quite
usually field musical acts.

But they’re playing.

And the woman in the booth across
is lounging, with her head against her
hands, and a mask of absolute defeat
covering her rather lovely face

Well, the waitress stops and asks
her for he order, with a smile, and
the woman quietly answers all the
questions, including “Is there something
wrong?” Of course there is. Her
car broke down. it’s been a long
damn day.

But they’re playing

While the woman sits, she
listens to the music from the booth
across, and slowly, her mask works
it’s way loose, but just a bit.

So, she gets a bit more comfortable,
eyes closed and facing the ceiling
as the songs she never thought she’d
hear at this hour, in this place,
wash over her and everyone until
her mask slips finally.

Do you know any Tom Petty?
of course they do, they say.
So they both flip through their songbooks
and the woman smiles thoughtfully
and all is not right with the world,
but the bits that aren’t don’t matter
so much right now.

Oh, and they’re playing.

I will, I will, I
promise. Karma’s
got me by the balls again.
I will, I’ve killed, but
now I sense
you’re not amused this time.

Oh
I will, I will! It’s
just so much
to try and handle all alone.
I will, I will, as
you forget you used to be
a friend of mine.

There’s nothing quite as offensive
as a lit cigarette in a room of non-smokers:
the mark of a guest as unwelcome as
the pungent sick he permeates with.

Though, in all measured, fair, and honest
assessments, perhaps that room
could use a little shaking up;
Perhaps those boys and girls
need
their cages rattled.

Well son,
light another one, and get yourself lit too.
There’s a lot of folks that just don’t smoke
(Read: You’ve got a lot of work to do).

I’ve come to speak as an older, English,
Gentleman.

Strange the effects that older,
English, books can have.

They’ve seen something in the forest
just outside the lantern-light
but Adventurers are adventurers
and don’t quite give a good god damn
So stepping lively through the waving
branches of a white-pine grove, the
Boys in Black ain’t looking back: they’ve
half a map and half a plan

Of course, for all adventurers
the first one’s always rather rough
and every little detail not quite
taken in account, so
when the man in back was dragged away
by creatures unbeknown or seen
the other young adventures
kept not their wits about

Fortunately, however,
one lone brown bear, though quite a sight
is no match for six stout walkingstaves,
so was dispatched quite quick
And the boys were quite relieved
when dragged away was dragged on back
and plan were laid for next adventure:
Bring more than just sticks

See, the folks we love,
they get drunk sometimes.
Sometimes, they go and
do things that make us question
(not really, but we think so)
weather we really love them
anymore.

Sometimes, though
the folks we love,
they get drunk,
and then they bare their
very souls
(drunk words are sober thoughts
and all that, though I hardly believe it).
Now, what to do with the
mess they’ve made the morning after?

Funny, really, to think about
that we mostly know each-other
these-days, anyway
Indirectly through the meandering
THOUGHTS
we sometimes feel pressed to press
pen to paper or finger to key, as is
the less poetic, but far-more-common
scenario
to iterate for (potentially) the entire
rest of the world
to read along with at home.

Funny, really, to think about.

Terrifying, truly, that we
know each-other so very, very well
Kindred souls and all that
…(not in a gay way)

(Happy Birthday)

I guess you’re busy on the
other side of your party, and
that’s oh-kay, ‘cuz there’s
pizza and good company
in the little corner that I’ve taken
for my own, even though it’s
someone’s house that I don’t know
(but her friends are nice, I’ll find
on the walk out in to the rain
out of the party and
towards the newly-fixed car
that of course will fail again)

Well anyway, that dress looks wonderful,
even if the make-up is a
bit too much for me to take. But
who am I to say a word? Forget
about it. Oh, and one other thing
(and Connor said it best):
Happy Birthday darling, we love you
very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.

When the blown radiator is
replaced and the engine is
still spewing green shit
all over the GOd DAMned place,
what’s the next step?

Here’s a good hint:
it has nothing to do with
running the car across town
anyway, like you just did.

I don’t use your nomenclature
so pay close attention while
the system that you’ve grown
in to is
dashed upon the metaphoric rocks
that ever hover oh-so-near the
metaphoric ship that the lot of us
ride

I’ve got the life preserves, prepared
emergency lines so we can
drag you back if you’re caught
in the tide, but first you
have to
grab on.

It may be awful
lonely sitting here
all night alone

But

New steel on the
six string make the
time alone pass
that much more
wonderfully.

It’s been a month
since the boys back home stopped
writing.

A god damned shame,
since all those boys back home
were god damned good at
writing

Maybe the post is slow this season,
for some reason.
Maybe nobody’s home this season,
for some reason.
Maybe, though
(just maybe, though),
the boys back home just
got sick of
writing.

A god damn shame,
since all those boys back home
were god damned good at
writing

.

We’ve contemplated many
variations on the same theme
theame
theeem
theim
thematic expressions, perhaps by
eye contact, or skin brushing on
skin passing just near enough to
feel each-other’s skin

The passing comments, too, help
when contemplating jointly. Could
we communicate? do we communi
cate? Have we communicate(d)?
Should we, all things considered (
and all things have been), commu
nicate? Does all this broken spee
ch make things hard to follow fo
r you? I know it does for m
e.

How often do
vocational schools
get you in to a real
vocation.

Bird is dead.
The sordid utterances harping on
the statement written fifteen feet high
on a school building’s brick facade
don’t change anything

Bird is dead.
The countless articulations scattered
through Main Street America, or
just the parts that give a damn,
can’t bring anyone back to life.

Bird is dead.
Body buried, coroner clocked out,
and countless tributes and tears
mark the facts as true ones.

But when that record spins
and that needle hits
and that baseline kicks
and that sax starts to blow,
Bird Lives,
And there’s nothing you can do about it.

I drink my fine wine straight from
it’s un-stoppered, long-necked bottle,
and I don’t abide by those cheep
hot dogs, or fail to spring for extra
croutons on my Wendy’s Side Salad.

I’ll play all the songs I write on a
dime-store guitar from the sixties and
tune the strings with a pair of pliers
while swearing up and down (and
all too often) that Fender Telecasters
are the way to go.

I’ve driven American all my life
and done so far too late and
far too fast and far too often
for my health and wallet to
warrant, all for the thrill of watching
the speedometer go up while
the gas gauge goes down.

And finally, when all is
said and done, I’ll probably sit
down late one night.

And over
the course of a couple of hours,
between sips of wine and bites of hot dog, just before I tune my guitar
(only a bit after I turn off the car),
I’ll write about it.