I’ve said it
over and over
and over again.
But I’ll
say it one
more time,
for good
measure:

Don’t.
Fuck.
With.
Me.

what is this, the price we pay?
to wander through this wandering spot?
and to our every whim we play
and hope that we will not get caught.
But alas! I feel it’s all for naught:

there’s sirens on the way.

The sun’s been out all
day today and the
wind is blowing cool but
it’s hard to care about
wind through a pane
glass window so
I’ll lean back and
watch someone watch
the Television and
make some light
conversation before
I reluctantly pass
out in someone
else’s armchair
only to be wakened
by the ringing of the
cell phone that I
never wanted on in
the first place.

Not that I meant
to take the nap,
but it was a damn
fine nap.

“Hello?”

All respect to the man who
calls a quarter tank of gas
a twenty dollar bill
a travel-sized tool box
a length of rope
and an acoustic guitar
‘Being Prepared for Anything’

As I sit in my car seat
screaming
at the top of my saxophone’s
lungs and I
hope that I
catch the ear of
someone
wandering by,

nobody cares enough
to even call
the cops, at 10pm
on a school night.
So I sit in my car seat
and scream
at the top of my saxophone’s lungs

Steady with that light!
we have to check that he’s receptive
can he hear us?
can you hear us?
can you see us?
are you there?

Pulse is normal, steady breathing
but I don’t think that he’s seeing
any of us, and if
this weather holds –
these heavy snows –
then I suppose
that this could be a problem.

He thinks to himself
“Am I dying?
A most curious feeling is this.”
but deep in his soul
he yet fights for control
of the cognizance, rightfully his

He’s certainly
fed up with vying
for the presence of mind that he seeks
but his thoughts are delayed,
he knows that he has strayed,
and now only leans to remiss

While he thinks to himself
with his picture of health,
“Even Death would be better than this.”

My legs they
ache,
with longing.
To hit the open country road
and ride until the sun comes up
and everything on Earth is
slowly stirring

To find a small clearing
near a pond, but not too
near a pond, where I
can take a bath and
tuck myself inside my
sleeping bag amidst a
plethora of painful
rocks to rest on

It’s poetry, I promise.
As long as you don’t
think about the
hunger and the
biting flies
and the long ride
back
home

What do you want?
What do you really want?

How does it add up
to all the things you
think that you’ve
accomplished?

What do you think you want?
Do you even know?

Have you even considered
the possibility that
you’ve got everything you
ever really wanted?

Because odds are,
you probably do.

Or odds are,
you don’t.

Either way,
I don’t know anyway
so stop asking me for handouts

the cut of
Steel strings feels
so nice beneath these
aching fingers

Insipid would have been
the word of the day.

but,

certain events have
transpired in the past
sixteen hours, which,
in their turn, have
effectively changed the
word of the day to
Refreshing.

I love new experiences.
New names and faces.
New dives and dialogues.
New nights on new streets
heading towards some
new horizon.

But sometimes, I
really want the old ones back.

We would speak for hours
or I’d listen and
you’d tell me all about it.
And it made sense that
it worked that way,
and I never asked to stop
and reconsider the
usual course of events.

But what is one to do
when the truth of every
matter is disputed by
cold hard fact?

I’m sorry dear,
But I just can’t
believe you anymore.

It’s a double-edged sword.
The sky is finally clear enough for
me to see the stars,
But the heat has dissipated
from the lack of cloud-cover.

But I am not dismayed;
A wise man once told me,
you can’t have everything.
Where would you put it?

Fuck.
I’m tired.
But
I have to
finish
at least one
complete
cognizant
thought.

Diligence isn’t
or doesn’t seem
to be working anymore.

A few
quick
naps
do not a
good night sleep
make.

Think.
Fuck.
I’m tired.

And t’s sobering
to see the best of men sit
Fighting for 3 long years,
just to witness all the good times.

To make God Damned certain
that his kids have grown.
To make God Damned certain
His people were taken care of.

It’s not a death in the family
but it hurts like one.

Goodbye Gary.

We miss you already.

We told ghost stories
while driving down a
mostly-abandoned midnight
stretch of I-94.

The truck hummed familiarly,
keeping a semblance of
comfort as our minds Raced
back to places where we
didn’t know what lay
quite beyond the ring
of our flashlights.
When gates swung
for no good reason,
and toys came on
without a battery to
power them.

the thoughts of forgotten
fears gripped us,
memories of times spent
in dark places we
probably ought not
wander through.

And without the comfort
of that constantly
humming motor,
I’m certain we would
have driven ourselves
Insane.

I have no fear of shotgun-toting
orangutans. And why should I?
They’re just monkeys with
weapons they don’t understand
how to handle.

And all the while
you think I can handle myself
But I can’t
I’m just a victim of
your imagination.

Toyota makes a fine,
Fine automobile
But
I have never
been more terrified
of potholes.