And it's Friday
And I'm sorry
As the ghost behind your shoulders
Steps out from somber shadows
It's imprinted in your walls
And in your hands
And I know
And I'm sorry
It's always bleak when the week will end
Weakness begins
It's imprinted in the ceiling
To steal your smile

And I know why
She never had to tell me
I know why my sweetest love
Hates Fridays
And I know why
I understand she loves me
It's not the weekend, it just Fridays

Still it's Friday
And I'm sorry
I only put on my boots
To walk through cemeteries
It's imprinted in the graves
And in my mind
And I know
And I'm sorry
Tonight I'm going to party
By turning low the lights
It's imprinted in our blood
And beats our hearts

And I know why
She never had to tell me
I know why my sweetest love
Hates Fridays
And I know why
I understand she loves me
It's not the weekend it's just Fridays

It's not the weekend, it's just Fridays
That make her feel so low
It's not the weekend, only Fridays
That sit heavy on a soul
It's not the weekend, it's just Fridays
That would steal her glow
It's not the weekend, only Fridays

trill highest those
of lowest shrill
call mighty from
the lowest crawl
cry loudest
those who are shy
for tenderness
those among the horde
those souls
who bear a world of blows
going on however
they find a way knowing
someday
it's all going to go their way
or just gave up
hoping for
one day
to come along

A block from the office
the city is tearing down an overpass.
Today they're beating the **** out of it
with a pneumatic hammer
the size of a freight train.
Its pounding
in time with my heartbeat
like the worlds largest metronome
suspended from the end of a crane.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

I keep wondering
what’s going to happen
to all those buskers and hookers
who peddle their wares under that bridge.
I'm not seeing it though and
no observation means no poetry.
No poetry means no catharsis, and
my guts are full of hornets.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

It’s the great whisky **** of the spirit,
the all-encompassing lack of passion;
the longing for old friends;
the desire to lean on old habits
the chinks in something resembling old armor.
the crease, the seam, the fold.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
There’s this pain in my head;
behind the left eye
where the secrets live.
driving and grief stricken.
(misfire on eight.)
The headache has no name, but
it sings a song.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

It's not necessary
To walk through a cemetery
We'll still get graveyard dirt on our boots.
There are billions of bodies
Innocence buried everywhere.
Just take a step.
They are the foundation of things
This hopeless empire built on corpses


Wine-drunk time well spent
in cheap shirts
with ring around the collar.
Sweating. Sobbing.
Furthering the stains and their hidden agenda.

I have a nice watch though.
It was a gift. From the cosmos.
It’s this inside joke we share and
we're laughing at you because
you don’t get it.

Neal died on the train tracks somewhere in Mexico.

Jack died at his Mother's house in St. Petersburg, FL.

Remember that.

I am a borrower
collecting things that shine
all stashed in cracks and hidey-holes
where the rafters meet the roof
in the basement floorboards
lift one and you'll see
the treasures I've collected
two gorgeous glassy eyes
seven gilded antique buttons
a bouquet of sweetly fragrant lilies
a gleaming jar of pixie dust
three noble barristers
an Irishman netting butterfly dreams
a sorceress of the endless prairie
windmills like soldiers all in a line
the saddest porcelain doll
a small brown bear
trains screaming by on underground rails
a sprinkling of desert blooms
six jack-in-the-boxes so I'm always surprised
the hairless stuffed dog that bit me as a child
a Rickenbacker bass softly riffing the blues
a farmer's Ovation to accompany my woes
seashells that sing the ocean breeze
a merman from the Northern seas
tucked away in every space
packed within each sweet hollow
these simple pleasures I have borrowed

What happens when
a 400 year old
hillbilly vampire
from outer space
comes to Gig City
on April Fool's Day
with a guitar and
a bad attitude?

We will soon find out...