if (or - the violence and dissolution of the messy surgical process of my sweet creativity) & you

and if you call looking for me

i’ll be in the basement

i’ll be in the basement

rattling spoons
rattling spoons
dragging joyful noises

out into the room

and beating them to the brink of death

until they fit into a tiny

little box

joyful noises

like joyful babies

don’t it make you swoon

rattling spoons

rattling spoons

yesterday a whole horn section

tonight all tambourines

and tomorrow

i will kill a notion or two

dead

in

cold blood

on the indian rug

on the concrete floor

and if you come looking for me

don’t knock on my door

i may be dead in here
or cleaning up some stuff

it might even sound like the

hellfire of angels

tearing my flesh from the bone

that just means

that I am onto something finally

so leave me alone

until I emerge

with that limp and bleeding something

soaked in the fine aged patina of

suffering

my creative process

alone

in a sound dead basement

with no witnesses
and if you are worried
at all beyond your ability to swallow it down

i left a fifth of bourbon

in the mailbox

drink it

and I will be along

i will be along

for you

and my whiskey

please save me some

please save me some

of my whiskey

save me some….