I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem.
burning behind my temples,
I drove this far today to be alone.

Such a long mess of a day; I swear I’ve grown,
but I’m too old- crows feet perched above dimples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem

If I yawn and stretch my lungs any more I’ll decompose.
I’d trade a kidney for a long shower to **** these road pimples;
I drove this far to be alone.

My eyes glaze like shivering chrome,
tuckered out from scanning lousy stanzas full of samples.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem

But I’m still packed and unshowered, staring at memory foam
And now, sitting with this pen in hand ain’t simple.
I’d put my feet up but for this **** poem;
I only drove this far to be alone.

I'm shakin' hands with the trees,
High-fiving their leaves,
leaving both of us silly and genuinely pleased.
and by 'both' I mean ten.
We were wrestling zen-
Buddha pinned, nearly sinned
till he slacked, touched my back, bought a drink for my friend-
I'm remembering now what I couldn't then.

Easy green tables
filled with clammy empty bottles-
This ain't the witching hour,
but strokes away from church bells.
Somewhwere between darts
and eternal lines for level velvet
I thought I heard a phone ringing
but I know it's just Pink Floyd
telling me the time.

Outside I hear a mad sound-
savage throats making waves.
I only imagine the scene,
safe on the 4th floor
it sounds like monstrous dogs.
dogs that bite children,
scare police, and chew dumpsters.
They're looking to dominate, to mark,
to catch, and they're ready to bleed
and if they can't do these things
then they'll haunt.
they'll haunt me as I'm trying
to grind words 'till their powder is pure.
They'll chase away all want and need-
they're no more dogs than I.

I want to speak with the director of my dreams,
ask him 'bout the plot twists
the cast, deleted scenes-
ask him why he shot it backwards
on a paper trampoline.
Then I'd ask him why I had no lines
and where the crew had been,
why the props were real,
how he made it it feel
so **** convincing.
Then I'd ask when next he thinks
he'll need me on the screen.

Nobody's homebody, he melts on the road
like a Popsicle dropped
sick with sores in his throat.


Finds some lost leather proverbs
asleep in the mud
where my empty head had left 'em
'couple pulses short of blood,
nearly choked on the truth
with wooden ears and swollen tongue.


Not a pinch of relief
for dusty rubber teeth;
make a mind hate it's grainy brain
half-baked with sleep,
while the other half lay caked with wasted belief.

I know I was sleeping, still as can be
but was there a nightmare?
My eyes rolled back, sunk down, dug deep, and I floated
up, up, past the clouds, up towards transcendence.
I found myself in the company of the Big Man's Symphony,
a multitude of beautiful shining faces, gorgeous imaginative instruments
nothing earthly about them.
And the music- oh the music.
I don't want to call it sound, cause that's too ugly,
that doesn't describe what was surrounding us.
It was perfection.  It was awe. I was nervous.
For as all played and buzzed and hummed and awed,
I did not.  I couldn't.  My instrument was different.
Mine was odd, mine didn't fit
It looked hand-made, it smelled like dirt
and whenever I wished to join in on the beauty,
my instrument coughed, and cracked.
The strings disappeared and the holes filled up.
What happened next bothers me most:
I fell.  down. I fell far.
Far from beauty and majesty,
far from transcendence,
I fell to the ground.  I bit dust.  I drew blood.
and my instrument melted under my tears
like mud.

You sent me the sweetest thing
In that package, grinning
up at me on my step-
had my name on it and everything-
how thoughtful! What a surprise!

Ok, I lied-
no package,
but now you know a desire of mine,
and it didn't cost me anything-
not even a stamp.

he didn't wear any shoes
'got no place with a roof to spend the night
he could but he never had to

never owned a guitar but he played mean blues
claimed the powders and herbs helped dim the light
he didn't wear any shoes

quick as a whip but slow to argue
drank like a sailor but the last to fight
he could but he never had to

poorest man I ever knew
a wealth of wisdom, no room for things trite
he didn't wear any shoes

his stories wilder than he, so they had to be true
the whole bar agreed he should write
he could but he never had to

he downed a tall whiskey then slouched in his stool
it took us some time to realize he'd died.
he didn't wear any shoes,
he could but he never had to

I drowned it all tonight
in a tub of foolish advances
too hasty for rationale's sake-
washed her mouth out with soapy regret.

If she tells me she's dry
and that the taste was nothing,
I think I'll just wrinkle further.

'Cause the drain is choking
and the water's gone cold
and I'm left naked, shivering.

Guri Tower is that really you?
You're standing straighter, shoulders squared
with a new, flashy suit.
Let me wipe my eyes and take another peep,
readjust my trusty big browns,
and try to cut through this rainy blanket one more time.
It can't be.  You look more like a billboard than a precipice-
but I can't deny your stature.
Surely you haven't moved without telling me.
I'll be ******, Guri Tower...
My, how you've modernized-
enough to make me clutch my mug of wine and whistle.

There's a bruised cloud sitting above me.

aren't its glowing edges lovely?

Even though the sun smiles,

no raindrops for miles,

This cloud's staring, not blinking, not budging.



But I'm not lost, I'm not even alone

standing outside- in the cold- of my home

where not a soul stirs

save my echoing words,

'kept company by the sound of tires on the road.



See, I wanted the world to stop moving

till it parked, dropped me off in a state of not doing.

Coming home's gotten hard,

I've outgrown this backyard,

So my feet weep and itch to keep cruising.

Sometimes if I tilt my head
back, with closed eyes, and let
the breeze pat me down,
while my concealed eyes gaze
at the bright pink bulb
of the sun somewhere above me-
sometimes, I slip beneath a spell
and my fully awake brain
cozies-up in the very familiar
quilt of a dream-
a dream that is unlike those
of a night's sleep,
foreign to a bed or even
a park bench,
a dream that lies not within
the past or future
or the realms of absurd
surrealism-
but instead a dream about
what is around me
at that moment-
everything unseen in its place,
faces I don't know remain
belonging to complete strangers
and the bus screeching to a halt
inches from my sandals
honks in panic at no one else
but me.

There's a demon there
                     trick'lin down,
                                 trippin' me
                                         and grippin' down.


Think he's under the stairs, now
                             hidin' down there,
                                               spitin' me,
                                                    and bitin' down, there.


So I just sit up top,
        tearin' my hair out,
                 he's scarin' me down there,
                      I can feel him starin' me down.


Bet he won't just up and go away,
                            guess I've plumb forgot how to pray,
                                              plus we far from heaven here,
                                                                         So...
                                                             ...I bet he stay.

I'm sitting here trying
to perfect a tint.
Gotta find a shade that
blocks the harsh gazes,
keeps me cool
and matches my tired wheels,
but not too dark-
I'm not trying to to hide
and I want her to see me-
need her to feel comfortable
climbing aboard,
feel welcome
shotgun
Guess I really don't want
just anybody
peeking in to see
exactly what I'm wearing
on the inside.
In the end it's up to them though-
all they gotta do
is pull the handle-
because anyone that knows me
knows I keep my doors
unlocked.

The hour's absurd
not one foreign word
can be heard through these paper-thin walls.
The mosquitoes all sleeping,
I imagine them creeping,
convincing my Skin 'till it crawls.

Send a prayer up for the families,
send a prayer up for the lost.
Send a prayer up for your enemies,
your friends, your crazy boss.
Send a prayer up for tomorrow,
for good weather and good health,
send a prayer up for all of these things
that go beyond yourself.

Just a cigarette's walk from a waking day,
when rain stings the long strides of my plight
And the shadows burn with strange orange rays
At least we still have light.

When my head's turned around but my feet know the way
And my pants hang loose but my wallet's tight;
Dying to eat but too dead to pay
At least I still have the light.

When minutes fall asleep and your ears ring,
both eyes grow numb and tire of what they see.
Your soul it screams but your phone fails to sing;
Endure these times and let all things just be.
Forsake your ev'ry impulse; you're not dead,
for harm precipitates when Rashness acts.
Trust you'll come around and keep your head,
save your wicked energy, relax.
Don't scan your memory in search of holes;
it's easy to reflect, re-run, repeat.
Don't wring your hands or pace with itching soles;
The nectar of true Patience drowns defeat.

Don't fool yourself; quick words may dull the sting,
To wait instead is such a precious thing.

There's a time...and a place,
So do me a solid, and please-
please peel that smirk from your face.