It's not always about the rock

it feels forced today,
nothing can flow, nothing can be made,
the trees all seem to be swinging
incorrectly
not to my desire
i don't want to answer my phone,
or salute the dirty bastards walking down the street
i want to spend the day in my head,
which makes it hard when you have so much
around you to interact with
maybe that's how people lose it?
by spending too much time in their heads,
and not taking part in whats constantly changing
and moving, and growing and once a upon a timing
maybe i should of fought harder?
made my voice heard a little louder?
maybe i should of wrote something?
or sent someone something?
or just done something!
no.
you can't beat yourself up for the things
that washed down the street into the pile
just make sure i remember this part
make it a part of you
to remember this part.

Baaaaahhhhh! yes! lets go!

the pain resides,
i can breath a little easier,
the sky seems a little overcast,
the situation seems a bit breezy,
the contestants on the game show seem uncertain,
and i seem unhinged,
my throat, bare bone dry, due to cigarette inhalation
my hands all cut up and damaged
how?
i dunno?
dirty fingernails, face without a shave in
i don't really count or know just how many days
my gut hanging way over my waist line
"the pixies dancing on my head"
glass cutting up and slashing my skin
and school children will eventually one day,
feel exactly this
dig it
dig it for what it is
donate a rib or a spine
some people don't even use theirs
so whats the deal if they don't have it?
give it to someone who needs it
someone who would bleed their veins for it
i withdraw
and stand upon the roof
drinking my orange juice,
looking down over the rolling hills,
i take my thumbs and stick them in my belt loops
and feel right at home.

dirty sweaty hands are an advantage in a thumb war

forever is overused
so is love and death
together is used out of context
as well as sex and drugs
the bar is not home, and neither is this place
george carlin said it best
"it's just a place to keep all your shit"
sometimes my heart beats fast, and i enjoy it
and i like pain
out of pain comes some of my finest work (at least i think so)
i envy bums and hobos
because they said "fuck it" a long time ago
i want to break rules and cause disruption;
sometimes, i stand out in the sun
and i feel the sweat dripping down my back
like this is where i'm suppose to be
i want to throw myself upon the leaves and grass
and become sucked into the wildlife
feeling the dirt between my toes
and the water from the sprinklers raining down on me
the roots from the trees wrapping themselves around
around and around
overtaking and consuming my inner most heart
its honest here
heartbreak was a good thing for me
so is living poor
i want to starve out in the desert
and come close to misery
i want to feel the pain of hunger in my stomach
like i feel the pain for madness in my heart
whoever's up there, if anybody at all
can you make this a little harder for me?
that's all i ask
challenge and test me to my limits
give me hell!
out of that, will develop the most beautiful things
i will ever do

Tonk, Honkey Tonk that is..

when i awoke, arm numb, needles running, from the place where she rested her head. i slowly hugged and rolled her so i could get up without disruption. i put some Lee Morgan on the player and walked out onto the balcony, the sun was starting to warm up and the concrete was still cold in the spots where the shade remained, my feet touched these spots and sent a nice refreshing chill through my blood. i was in the process of lighting my first cigarette of the day when the lizard slowly crawled across my feet. i jumped with surprise at the amount of thing ingested the night before. i poked my head through the curtain and starred down at this young frail body lying in my bed, wrapped like a mummy in a blanket, lips soft. where did we come from and how did we even make it home? i looked out across the street and saw my car parked there, with one tire on the sidewalk, and the other tire flat, my poor car propped up on there, like a handicapped prisoner. i didn't feel so well, there was a burning in my stomach, was it from the guilt? or was it the drinks? maybe a combination of both. my lips were dry and crusty and i had some buildup right around the eyes. i sat on the balcony for a very long time, with a cigarette in one hand, i thought about going inside and putting some shorts on, but i liked the way the breeze felt and the sun felt when one was naked. i could feel the ringing in my ears and i watched as the neighbor rolled out his lawnmower and began to get to work. i saw him as he took a swig from his lemonade, with his pastel shirt and casual slacks, with his fisherman hat, and his stupid sunglasses. that cocky smile creeping across his face and his stupid beady little eyes. he had the life, tha bastard, and i hate to be an ass about it, but he has his picket fence, his hot wife, and his career as an urban developer. what was i doing? fucking living! while he had to follow the same routine i could make my own up as it went. i had nothing to prove so i could just as easily be here or there, but know exactly where i am coming from. the bastard probably cries himself to sleep at night. i walked around with a cup of coffee for awhile and my hat on, mumbling to myself the poem about staying gold and the two roads that diverge in the woods; i washed my face and hands, drank down the rest of my coffee and sat at the typewriter. i switched it over to Herbie Hancock and waited for it. the feeling was there, and i sat there, arms suspended in the air, perfectly inline over the keys, waiting for it to hit me. when it finally did, i burst into it with such fury, that when i was done, i was sweating.

Cellar Door

Insert Barnacle Hangline Here: not there... actually here: or maybe to the left, of fuck just read it

i'm tired. unable to sleep- unable to comprehend just what or how is keeping my jamming my foot into the hardwood floor. i lie, lay, fade down into the floor waiting for the sleep to come and take me. it was all circular, the price i paid long ago, somewhere down that downtrodden road filled with field mice and anarchist pigs, filled with high flying low flying crop dusters, dusting us with tar and feathers to run around and try and fornicate everyone. to be be under the onside of an argument. i watched as he pointed his long bony finger out over my head and it shook, i tell you it shook man, with the cold pressing in through the walls, the old man shook at the sight of the midnight sky filled with a piece of the moon. he stirred the fire with the end of the cane and never before in my life had i wanted to kick that cane right out of his freaking weightless hand and watch him fall in, not to die, not to be burnt, but to watch the fire in his eyes as he came after me ready to teach a young man a lesson. his small clenched fist tight soaring through the air in slow motion, making contact with my temple, then blackness. the sleep engulfed me.

........Grab AHold......

often times more than not
it happens and i hear it
the sounds drop out and
the lone cars swish by
in complete silence
camera 1
camera 2
its still dead air
i peak through my blinds
at the blistering sun drenched street
i peak through my disguise
at the people staring at my insides
don't
please don't look in my soul
take my business card instead
and leave me
leave me
leave me alone