Live music is a sound machine,
On all four corners,
Gilded streets, nearly five in the morning,
Pavement feet meet ****** shoes
Shuffling down the block.

Pigeon claps & high hats,
Cat heads & piano chops,
Whiskey sours evening gowns,
Lemon drops with Father Brown.

The St. Claude Shuffle down the boulevard,
Where shoes straddle electric wires.
Sirens ring & bullets proof,
And the blues sing out of shotgun shacks.

i'm a yellow chill
a daffodil in the rain
thought i found my place
kinda heard to explain

sip each glass of wine
your palette needs a rest
taste his *******'s brine
along your lips

signing documents
you can't help hide your grin
sweat beading down your brow
my nervous penmanship

is this what they call peace
four hundred dollars an hour
the clock says nine past three
rounding up minutes they devour

caught you dead to rights
my son's new step father
when he sees your blight
harvest grapes turn sour

i feel constant dread
our son can't cope the truth
so far above his head
your soulless attribute

i'm a daffodil, more like a coward in the rain.

The junction where smoke and fog reside,
gliding with western winds beneath these clouds,
the moon fades perilously from sight
and it rains ash.
A thousand candle wicks are pinched
as the scent of acres burn,
lit like the flames we blow out so easy.
Control is a funny word,
like when a doctor says, "She'll be fine, I've got this",
the arborist cries observing only skeletal remains,
as his patient has deceased having control to blame.

trace your faint touch down my rib cage,
whispered nails hush my chest,
let's synch our heart beats,
exhale burgundy breath,
that cheap red wine
and our ultra violet teeth.

unlace your lucid lust,
cocoons under silk sheets,
thread counts are high,
your body next to me.

your head rests gently,
my arm falls asleep,
i try not to move,
make sense to me.