inspiration

this sandy desert
a treasure
or an endless wasteland
i return to the well
find nothing
and such a long trip
for the little looksy
and staring back
nothing but sandstorms
and chapped lips
burning eyes
for something
wet and pretty
my body won't move
but standing steadfast
against the sun
all is quiet but the
single vulture
and the one nearby
wrinkled tree stem
long since succumbed to
this dryness
i am standing now unarmed
as i know i've come too far
i will not survive the return
with no water
one-way ticket
this time
a cooler breeze
alights on my face
like an angelic butterfly
all hope lost?
perhaps...
so far from my being
so far from my time
and lost to my mind
a swirly sandstorm
that once had the wet
relevance
of a thundershower
a nourishing danger
now just dry deathly
i scan the horizon
silence
fuck
nothing
but silence
and the vulture
my little friend
all hope lost
so maybe one last looksy
down the well
and what is that?
down in the darkest shadows
against the rock
what could that be
that i see
reproducing?
like a vulgar display
it is,
yes,
hope springs
a couple
tiny
drops...

congratulations

so today
is the day
you were thrown forth into the fucking world from you mothers nasty cunt
sickly screaming at the world...
covered in a nasty yellow slime
the horrid belly puss of fuck
so why do i care about
you made it to twenty whatever
surviving is not an accomplishment in this world
you dead turtle to the pace of progress.
what the fuck have you done
to warrant this celebration
someone starts the fucking song
and then everybody sings along
and they know every fucking word but mumble through your name
proof that you are completely lame
so how does it feel?
happy birthday
fucker...

reprieve (mercy mercy me)

"fuck yeah"
the sweetest relief
like shackles released,
fear unbound,
chains broken
the rubbing of the shackled wrist;
the breath from the undertow of oceans;
or the moment that one fine girl
out of my league kissed me;
the pressure of hours
built up like a crumbled fortress on
the very marrow of my feet;
the sweet sigh when the crimson
flows after a lengthy scare
at nineteen;
the removal of the cast
from the sweat ripe broken limb;
the last day of the revolution
when the birds begin to sing;
the moment it happens is the dilation of the iris,
the instant of the most beautiful thing one ever sees...
it is the sweet sweet sweet reprieve;
the last minute phone call,
for a stay of execution,
one more day
and i
never knew flesh could
actually breathe
and now it is all right
like the moment the blind man
realizes sight
as the most glorious moment arrives
taking
my
socks
off
at
night

time...mess

i’ve got things to do

places to be

women to fuck

with their perky little breasts

i don’t have time for this mess

i don’t have time for these thoughts

or your pretty little wreck

which does bear the romantic

foggy picture

of the innocence of youth

and the tragedy of death

and your soft and perfect neck

and it makes me long

for some water

or the bloody, bloody mess

the twisted metal

the marrow of this life

and you know that one

best

these days

but i don’t have time

even though your lips

look like cherry red

wine

and i long to

sip

from

the

sultriness of the

vine

but there is no time

i have many wrecks left to

survive

although yours might just take

the prize

but i don’t have time

no i don’t have time

but oh,

you do look so

fine....

snow shelter

I could be snowed in with my lady,

There’s a blizzard coming down

And as I walk to my destination

Each falling flake

Is an earthquake

With a head like mine

Tonight

And I came in from the

Cold to find myself

Here

In the warm pub

With the cool décor

And the wooden floors

Yeah, I could be snowed in

With a single beauty

But here

There are so many warm bodies

For a more general

And earthly relation

I could be snowed in

But I don’t care

Me and the band are playing

All night long

And it’s a joyful sound

Downtown

In this amber lit room

Beyond the foggy windows

A light against the cold winter night

And dancing idiots

Just being human

I chose this life

Because it is full of life

At least a little bit

And it is the best of my music pals and we are

Trading songs

We love for the singing

And Katie is dancing

On a table

And the laughter echoes like

The choir of angels

And the feet on the floor

The thunder of the heavens

Outside big snowflakes fall

I could be snowed in with my lady

But me and the band are playing

All night

Tonight

an ode to the things i didn’t do today

oh the time

down the drain

spiraling into a pool

of the simple deep sleep

of a hard working fool

and my body was a

tenderized

medallion of raw meat

from the work of the days

and nights

of bullshit moneymaking

and the five hour show

no break

and no ‘slow’ songs

to dance to

we kicked ass like a band should

and rolled in so late since the

money was good

and in the slim hours of morning

i drank myself down

in my dim living room

with a sweet lack of sound

but the ticking of the clock

while my bones slowly shifted

into a shape where i could lay

in my bed just a little less twisted

this ritual here

of each sunday morning

the religion of a guitar man

as busy as this one

the quieter hour with my ears slowly ringing

in the dark space of a dark morn

just before the sun breaks in

and a few hours later

i woke out of course

because the rest of the week

has trained me of sorts

sat around nursing a sore back

like a boxer

after the prize fight

rocky on oxy

or whatever it looks like

here i am,

a broken superhero

from last night’s insurrection

slinging songs into the hearts of the

sweet single girls

hurt by previous lovers

looking for a pearl

of love

or lovemaking

whatever they can

admit to themselves

and i had them in the palm of my hand

my broken bruised

guitar fingers that were

storming like lightning

last night

so today i have done little to

cut down the list

and the guy inside is now shaking a

bruised and

battered fist

not another day with nothing done

but i saw the sun

and grocery run

and i prepared a feast of flavors

garlic and oil

broccoli and basil

topped with

pan seared salmon

rich color and flavor

which me and the cat

known as

“mr. scratch bojangles”

enjoyed immensely

so i suppose here

late after dark

maybe i’ve accomplished

something

after all

my back aches less

and my senses are full

a happy cat

and the house smells of

basil

oh yeah

and i finally wrote

another fucking poem

number 3

why are there no

capital numbers

i’d like to write a song

and call you number 3

with a capital 3

but i am left with only letters and

T-hree just doesn’t ring so hard

you the girl i fell in love

with

in

this

bar

your eyes

your hair

blah blah bullshit cliche’s

how about

capital eyes

so i could say that one real good too

so fucking blue!

and here i am longing for you

from this dark corner

but

there is no

moment

on the horizon

all i have is this paper and pen

a fetal position

watching the world

to see if it’s safe to

come outside

and you live it so

damned hard

you with your fancy tattoos

and your flowing pants

hanging from those toned hips

and the slithering, sexy shoulders

i wonder

if you will have regrets

when you die

i doubt it is the man

with the pen and the paper

watching as you

dance

on

by.....