I've never cared too much for history, found no appreciation
for it's multitude of names we commit to memorization
there's a certain friend of mine, born in 1989-
Sir Maximilian Relaxilian- and he lacked all motivation

Since the origin of time, I have traced his family line
and their genetic disposition towards supreme relaxation
He's the great great great great grandson
of the founder of vacation.
And this founder's son Clyde, well, he invented the slide
Clyde's kid brother Greg helped patent the keg.
And Greg's great grandson Snyder sold the very first recliner.

So whenever Max was challenged, troubled, bothered, or confused,
He'd recite his family tree, and use the very same excuse:
   "Hereditary mutations within each generation!"


     And so he sat around and slept,
     But never cleaned and never swept,
     Never ran, never lept,
     His promises were never kept.


Maximilian never managed once to get up off his ****,
too tuckered out for bowling, just too lazy to putt;
He Never traveled to the sink nor had he once bothered to think,
too coward for a shower, found no reason not to stink.

And then one super lazy afternoon a quarter after two,
Maximilian had a visitor, I promise this is true:
A tiger stood outside the door which he was too lazy to lock
as if he'd try to find the **** beneath the pile of ***** socks.
And then of course, it's no surprise he couldn't hear the kitty knock
and once you hear what happened next I guarantee you will be shocked...

The tiger tickled him
and giggled him
until his ticker stopped.

So next time you think of staying in,
instead of going out-
or complain about the effort
that it takes to leave the couch,
Or refuse to leave the sheets or venture from a cozy pouch...

just remember Maximilian Relaxilian, King of Slouch
and stay out of bed instead,
stretch your legs and use your head
then count your blessings, kiss your mother
motivate one another.

Hammering-out stammerings
while the morning's grown colder.
Burning through revisions
of the lines I should have told her.

My thinking's too loud for this library.

I need to go somewhere green-

a pasture- somewhere I won't be seen

for miles. Here I'll let my brain scream

as I watch the sun sink,

and just think.

to be near her song
is like hot breakfast on a cold morning,
yet I get chills when she sings.

Fish intestine and egg sac soup-
do yourself a favor
and call it noodles and beans,
but still try it!

You've handled more than you should take,
then took my hand, refused to break.
Amongst the promises and vows,
there's one last truth I'll show you now-
I'm mouthing words when you're not near
and saving them for you to hear-
*Replace your worry, tears, and blues
with all my love and dreams come true.

There's a passage of words you can follow
-the farther you travel the more you'll learn-
its walls narrow, hollow.

There used to be a valley here
where this man-made mound sits,
like a bump on a log,
Well, this used to be a valley.
back in the day before batteries,
before outlets, before highway gas mileage,
before we realized how many life forms we could jeopardize.
Now there’s just beeping, and dumping, and hissing, and honking
and spilling, and wasting and burning, and taxing
and killing.
Now we're filling the part of Earth that we call dirt-
give it a hopeless name so that we can spit in it
years before we’re buried in it.

Boy, SCUBA diving sure sounds fun-
to play in seascape soaked in sun.
I'm certified my classes done,
if only I could rent some lungs.

quick to tear me down
(and she says I'm impulsive)
she hoards the last word.

Jibber-jabber
jibber-jabber
make-up,make-up
soju.
Try to hear
If you're ok-
"Yah! already told you."

Longboarding barefoot

I can’t afford to slow down.

No shoes, no service

I shut the lock tight
with a sharp steely smirk on my face,
then melt the key.

Think of the profound
as the moon gives me shivers
like spinal lightning

Carlos described Jerry's guitar playing,
as he exhaled- said it was like stringing beads carefully,
craftfully, filling the room with a network of delicate colorful strands.
He would know better than most- Santana jammed with The Dead,
and there's nothing biased about his depiction- said he personally
decorated by throwing beads around the room.

I totally and completely appreciate, as I exhale,
  sitting in my socks, soaking up a Grateful compilation
track-by-track; a loyal Dead Head.
But I don't see beads.

I've never jammed with Jerry,
but I feel at times that we share the same room,
with it's hazy ceiling tired above the hanging art-
this room with soft, bright walls fit to hold each and every note
which collect neatly and gradually
to hang later like dew drops on spider's silk.


Maybe if I was there when Santana came through the door,
holding a Fender and a bucket of crafts,
And Jerry welcomed him excitedly through his beard,
then maybe we would see some beads.

I have this tattoo
of a cat in a shoe,
and below it reads CAT GOT MY TONGUE.
At the time I was young, now I've grown and it's shrunk,
And that's why you don't get tattoos when you're drunk.

The florescent window starts to tear
as unaware patrons laugh at what's not,
this curious artist tries not to stare.

Commotion and soju leave no room to care;
hard laughter claims faces and leaves them red hot.
The florescent window starts to tear.

There's a booth full of groping; revelry's shared.
A landfill of lonely unslurped shots.
This curious artist tries not to stare.

Fat tangible energy filling the air,
this hand girps the pen with all it's got.
The florescent window starts to tear.

Now they're howling and growling and shooting off flares-
not even the S.W.A.T.  team could make them stop.
This curious artist tries not to stare.

Now every wall's shedding its scales 'till they're bare,
while people are drooping and turning to slop.
The florescent window starts to tear.
This curious artist tries not to stare.

In the freshly seared hours of the morning
there's a hot, bothered growling
coming from beyond
the rose-studded chipping fence posts,
sick with the stench of stained mattresses
and mounds of cage-less garbage-
tossed *****-nilly
into a smoldering, contorted
**** of stacks.

Here,
in this spot of dawn
-in today's un-showered
moist enclave-
I find, syncopated
by the vrooooming scooters
and gassy buses,
a fresh hope diffusing faster
than the steam from drains,
-subtler than the soft soju snores
of last night's  curb cuddlers-
slinking up, down, around convenient stores' corners
past every security camera,
bouncing off rib cages,
tickling the barbules of  the songbird
perched in my utility wires
in a nest neater than my bed.
This is summer, Korea.
This is Korea in the summer.

Food for thought*'s a charming phrase
if not misunderstood.
Please understand, don't over-think,
you can't fix thoughts for food.

Time drains its pockets staring at flies
wasting itself is the least of its fears
lost in the tangle of tired foreign sighs.

Not savvy enough for these ricochet replies;
conversation too tight for its loose blushing ears,
Time drains its pockets staring at flies.

Both ears 'given up, its left with two eyes
relieved at the sight of occasional CHEERS!
Lost in the tangle of tired foreign sighs.

This turn of events caught all three hands by surprise-
hasn't had this much trouble in all of its years-
Time drains its own pockets staring at flies.

While the winged black patrons sip on pools twice their size
the clock dwells on stale tabs, lost phones, and spilt beer
lost in the tangle of tired foreign sighs.

The minutes and seconds ******* help if they tried,
and each stroke makes things worse: the hours just jeer.
Time drains its own pockets staring at flies
lost in the tangle of tired foreign sighs.

Just when I thought my muse had left
a splintered staccato formed words on a page;
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.

Haste in the morning fuels the morning breath
for two lovely dumbstruck lovers looking young for their age
just when they thought their muse had left.

I’m not sure I remember the rest;
The words stop like drumsticks dropped in rage,
but I still have a taste for the treble clef.

Desperate to try as my cousin suggests
burning through candles,  tarot, and sage
just when I’m sure my muse has left.

I vote for stripping this verse and shredding the rest
Getting in with producers and out with the wage;
We still have a taste for the treble clef.

Tequila sunrise and a Mumford sunset;
Is freedom a ***** once you’re out of the cage?
Just when I thought my muse had left,
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.

With an acid-cracked mind
and a fractured sense of time,
he giggled as he wriggled
trying to find the perfect line;
machine grip, nose stripped
as he scribbled from the hip
when another wave of flashbacks hit from behind.