Surprise Street


We wandered through hard-luck places
exchanging change for bits of candy
at corner stores and chasing them
with peach soda under burned out letters
in the humid summer dusk

We’d found a couple couches
and dragged them in to the garage
so most of us could sit comfortably
as we passed the microphone around
putting stupid jokes to worn-out tape
for posterity

the snack food would run out eventually
and quiet would come just before the birds
with bodies snoring softly on every floor
dreaming of promises and plans
that never came when the morning did

One at a time we would come to
pouring 7 kinds of bowls of ceral
gathering in the living room
kicking children’s toys around
waiting for the van to park outside

I left Surprise the following spring
tying shoes and trying my best
not to forget my coat in the warm
my strap on the old classical
my CD in the system near the television

I never went back



walking along,
feeling alone
in the lost land
of American Idol fans,
constructing a generation of
lounge singer heroes,
reliving the glories
of innovative artists
who have now passed into
the general mediocrity
of the past:
free to be groped;
free to be grabbed;
free to be destroyed.

and so i sit here,
listening to my indie music,
looking down my nose,
secure in my intellectual superiority,
evidenced by my musical selections.

On: Mendelssohn Sinfonia No. 11


life at one’s leisure
is a solitary achievement
a lonely achievement
but one must sacrifice such
things for freedom
but one must sacrifice those
things in name of honor
and all the things accompanying
those company
those company
that drive you wild, wild
wild wild,
wild with anger and distain

but on this beautiful day
but on this beautiful evening
i will cut the strings that
bind my soul and keep me bonded
i will get to the bottom
bottom of this entire thing.



Where’s the music to these lyrics?
Where’s the rhythm to the drumming of my hands on the desk?
Where’s the beat in the neck-breaking of my head-banging?
Where’s the chord to the strumming of my air guitar?
Where’s the tune whistling from my lips?
Where’s the snap between my fingers?
Where’s the melody to this song?
Where’s the tapping to my feet?
Where’s the music to these lyrics?
They’re all in my head.
It’s all in my head.

old songs and old friends


sitting for hours
on hard chipotle benches,
barely noticed in the reminiscence
of times past,
of times to come,
of everything in between,
enjoying the moment
although we all know
that it won’t last,
that it will fade away
like a song from the past
that slowly disappears
and then one day is found
on a shuffled ipod
and immediately suspends time
for four minutes or so,
taking everything back
to the idealized past,
in which everything we shared
is remembered fondly,
improving on the reality,
which was good already.

why i get paid less than you to live a much better life


in the loft i sit a-strumming my piano
looking down on you as you eat your
business lunch and i sing my soprano
the mic sits a bit low and you’ll find
it destracting but worry not lunch will
be over soon then its back to the grind
where i’d be obnoxious and remind
you i fit in not one bit, but am happier
here doing this skit of a song while
i sing and i play and my piano i drum
the sky is still blue today out where
you have no air conditioning or meeting
rooms and today i’ll sit and i’ll hum
because thats what i’m paid to do while
your tie is too tight and your life just aint right
and you know all the things you’re missing
out on.

so from this loft i sit and a-strum
my piano and look dumb, like you cant hear
the songs i’m singing from my too high
soprano. but worry not lunch is done
and my set is complete, my day’s work has
finished but worry not you’ve still hours
to perfect your typing skills and look
better in bluetooth for ms. sours