She’d walk up with all the graciousness of spilled paint
A glass of wine for a long day
Who has developed my room in sepia?

We’d missed the festival
Mixing in the kitchen, a flannel excitement
Why did we ever take that walk?

I’ll never know why

This is the last song
Taped up bodies and muted cars
This will be the last one
If I can swing the stick
I can’t be wrong

Hold me just a little tight
I need the takeout
The lawn is overdue,
earning sweeping bare feet
Fending off rain on neon nights

I’m looking for a pickup
One that can transcribe,
Vibrations uncanny
Senseless in my mind
I’m only a little open
And it’s my last song tonight

Take off the roof and pass me the moon
Let’s drive in the dark too far
I haven’t been moved in so long
But I feel it’s making up for lost time
Treat me and need me
Tonight’s song can wait for soon

Your eyes they felt, like a  b i g   l a k e
I had been failed, but now I  a m  p i n k
It reaches down and it counts o u t
the grain exhales, through your little hands
in the loose sand
We were one, when my m i n d rests
They can’t touch what I’ve never had

Your focus it felt, like a  t r a n q u i l
A state I’ve never been
Our shoes were all, in the c l o s e t
you use the space to dance for them,
I n  y o u r  t r a n q u i l
Not unaccustomed, but I’d never been
and I  l i k e  i t

Grass whistling in a deep purple pink warm sky. Little flecks of light flashing in and out. In our eyes, it was endless. I smell rain and smoke and something dull. A past smile beating on a drum.

The love of your life is out there
And probably overdosed on ******* ******

The last knock at my door
Laid out a soft rapt
It was everyone I knew
Rang up to find out
Did my fingers sprawl
How do I know my legs grew

All the cars in my town
Flee yellow and blue
Filled to the brim
Pulling the street wide out
How did all distance set in
Do I know my stride is at whim

A cliff side is calling
I hope that I don’t fall in
The vines lay all tied back
I’ve ate all my egg yolks
I fold in my linen

I’m young and I’m weary
I’ve been younger too
Something is gone here
I peaked years ago,
and no one knew

It was as shaky as it was stable
As catalog cheap, as it was painted for an heirloom

We sat clothed in Saturday mornings
But this time we couldn’t speak
If I could I’d tell you
This particle board was pressed
With all the scheduled pitches and lunchtime whistles

The veiny grain roped and ebbed
In long wallflower cantations
And there a boy was lost

It should have been a museum’s muse
But all I threw out today was a ****** coffee table

What’s new with you?
Would you like to see my reel?
I’ve spent so much time waiving
I can’t touch a hand
The fruit of my labor
Isn’t Warhol made
The doors been shut dear
Forever night for five years

I haven’t transcended
And met with unfamiliar scorn
Im not a critter
No page of Kafka has been torn
I bring my audience furniture of leisure
Though I’m caged with key in hand
It is rusted, but at least I am well fed

There’s no fields of juniper
To hold you by the hand
I never got past the hotel party
Can’tcha understand
A rip in my sneakers
A ratchet to the land

Please don’t linger
Just stay a little longer
No reference in the stanza
Just a drowsy man
I won’t feed on you
I’m a vampire in yesterday
I want to speak to you in earnest
But not long enough to know what to say

A morning so bright it’s white at the edges
holds his head in aches washes away at the walls of the trenches
Just a boy in a cobbler shop playing to his muse
Sewing men’s threads and pulling at rubber souls
Feeling a needle is not as sharp as it is dull
A metallic rust foamed in his workman’s sink
A trinket lay silently where only he could think to keep


An afternoon so gloomy it’s ripe like sweet trifles
A cold front sleeping across humid drowsy  tendrils
The treetops are trotted but not yet bare
The wind does not carry as much as it cares
A fermented love song torn in its callous drinks
The dream of the summer will fade in a week

A night so porous the skin yearns to breathe
The daily flick to an ashtray pins the beat of the city on a wreath
The street posts dare not glutton on as guidelines
The echoes don’t comfort as far as they try to hide
A pleasure in silent transfiguration of the dusk
A stalk so golden yet burdened to rot at the husk

Here I sit in beneath gypsum sky
Forgetful in a pitiless tomb
Laying upon an artificial knoll
I made this myself

My splintered hands crawling towards the latch in obdurate gesture
With the dismal resolve of my skeletal percussion
I made this myself

The pulse in my frame an uncertain litany
Tried torn from the brief and the certain
Not shy from a skip or a leap
I pry this myself

Unversed expression interrupted in speech
I crept down the moss extending decrepit tendrils
The treaties of dawn or a query of nebulous ambition
I pry this myself

I asked for your name in pinhole obscura
I called on your intrusive pest of a credit
I trusted your fallible cacophony divination
Maybe you have given it your all

misplaced, my intentions lay
a muddled sultry mess with the essence of my soul tied on
knotted and forlorn
nestled like bungee cords in the back of a suburban
the countless ambitions and insurmountable lows
they don’t treat me with focus
they cling and sink and surface in little moments
they fog my glasses and leave me empty, in a stupor
walking through any alleyway that beckons my name

it’s foreign to be misaligned with your conscious projection
someone put this out of sync
something left me out of frame
i’m pouring substance to smudge the scrawlings of a hallowed obsession
my autocratic, autobiographical TMZ
a drink to dull the sharpness of my critiques

a little remedy to sleep