Jesus Fucking
Christ my forehead
SWEATS when I play
Saxophone

Or maybe I would
sweat less if I
took it upon myself
to
take off of myself my
Nice New Fur Hat

But

Jesus Fucking
Christ do I look
Awesome

It’s a damp heat,
a damning sort of
weight upon the body
and, somehow, upon the
Soul

Our air conditioners
rattle off the sweet song of
recalcitrance, ourselves
refusing to venture forth,
save for to the car with
a sweet, sweet song to match.

But to fight too hard is
Useless,
and perhaps it’s best to
lock yourself in a little room
with a drum kit and some
ISOLATION headphones:
the point of the exercise to
-really- let your sweat bleed out

Weight on the Soul,
just like weight on the shoulders,
may hurt at first,
but only makes everything stronger

There’s a hat on the
lamp in the
corner

The lamp is on so
it’s not so dark inside,
but it only really lights
it’s own little corner,
while an old picture in
a new picture frame is
the only thing you
can really see, anyway.

And the hat, sitting
oh-so-nonchalant atop
it’s warm yet gritty
perch, tattered rim and all,
seems to watch the whole room
and compare it to the years
that it’s already seen through
the eyes of a barely-associated
third party.

An old picture in
a new picture frame is
all you can really see, anyway.

The interplay was brilliant,
but surely – and as usual –
someone’s been given
Far Too Much
Credit

Lesson would be learned, were
this not another go-around.
But some of this logic’s not
sound enough to carry any

Weight

…at all.

Strange how
‘In Too Deep’ becomes
‘One Way Out’ almost
‘In-Stant-Ly’

Strange how
so many heartfelt
lines of prose can
boil down to one word:

Peace.

The three ASSholes sitting just
one booth behind
have NOT-A-CLUE how near
their maker’s really standing by
to meet them

Not a permanent arrangement, mind,
but just enough of an
ASSociation
to keep the bastards on their
Toes,

Or at least their best behavior.

One (or three) ought
not, after all,
be so confident in
other folks’ ASSuagement

Three of them
One of me
Even odds,
as far as I can see

“I swear I’m ver-y
flattered that you asked me
to inspire you to
‘poetic heights’
or some similar
stupid state-of-mind”

Is what was said
in not so many words.
and perhaps, the
general meaning was
expounded upon,
just enough to
fancy up the
writer. Or,
that is to say,
he didn’t flatter
anyone, at least
no one today.

But the truth
as he’d imagine
is the inspire-r in question
was in fact
taken aback
and only had one
thought in mind:

“Suck
My
Wheaties”

though the true meaning
of that meaning, one
simply can’t begin to fathom

You may feel that you
certainly deserve the chance
to prod and berate
(and you do)
just for all the little
things and all the terrible
little things

Though, as you poke
and prod away I
feel that I should
certainly remind
(Or perhaps, simply
educate) you:

No matter how hard you
force your point across
Great White Sharks
do not believe in Karma

I’ve never heard the words
that you’ve been spouting in this
fashion, and although I feel your
passion, I can only point and laugh
not quite at you, but certainly in your
direction

‘Only one word
describes
chocolate this
creamy, this
rich, this
bliss’, and I
know this,
because the
TeeVee
Told me

Fermented summer
wafting through a bedroom
window, screaming for
action, garnering
disinterest as two
half-grown humans
make a bigger mess
of the already-dirty
sheets

Solar
indescribable yet
palpable in every
single nation
of the Earth

Lunar
Mass-Insanity
although there’s
never been an ounce
of proof in any
single nation
on the Earth

Strange to choose the
latter when the
former, it lasts
longer, and is
stronger, at lest

that’s how it seems to
be in every
city, every
country, every
nation, even,
on the Earth

I never bet on
the sure thing.
They almost
never end up
quite right
anyway.

I’d much rather
bet on the
little guy all
the way in
the back.

See that guy?
He’s got spirit.
He probably won’t win,
but he’s got spirit.

a hundred bucks on that guy.

Glorious combat
not so glorious
when faced with the
prospect of
Combat

Glorious Combat

http://www.myspace.com/saxsquatch

Music is a
two way street
and what I play
ain’t what you hear
and what you read
ain’t what they scribbled
down

Just figure what I’m
saying
don’t ask me what I’m
trying to say.

The morning’s come so early
and I just don’t want to talk to you
but there’s this feeling in my chest
I feel you ought to know

But the music on the stereo
it soothes the heart and calms the soul
And I don’t want to talk to you
but Baby, please don’t go

Nothing ventured
nothing gained
but the old truck’s
oil’s changed

though it’s been non-
stop for a month
near, straight,
so I must submit the
following observation:

Banality
is beauty
sometimes

Even the most docile six-string
can learn how to scream

Or a chipped set of keys
to sing (or sing
again)

The difference between
Extracting and
Extrapolating:

The one bears the
end result,
the other counts the
potential
for the one

Do we extract our
poetry, or
extrapolate?

Are these words worth
the thoughts they’re
meant to convey?

Or are we simply counting
our (un?)limited
potential?

Coughing up the sick
coughing up the sick and
sleeping back the tired
sleeping back the tired and
fighting
fighting
fighting
fighting for whatever works

just enough scratch to get by,
just enough scratch to pay the
bills and
tickets and
buy enough food to not die,
with just enough scratch to get by