The wind blew in violent cold gusts
And took all my words with it
To leave consciousness barren
My pen bleeds no more.

September,
****** September,
Do you remember,
Oh do you remember?
How she did surrender,
Her soul so tender.
September you monster,
****** monster.
Oh how you tossed her,
How I lost her.
September,
****** September.
Do you remember?
Oh do you remember.

If you don't know where you're going
And you have a heavy load
You can always change direction
And take another road

There's always more than one way to the finish
If one leads in, one leads out
Take another road to where you're going
And you'll find it round about

Life is never straight line
It's a circle never ending
To get to where you're going
Take another road that's bending

Things aren't going well at home
The cracks around you showed
It's time to get away and go
And Take another road

Find a different destination
kiss a frog, or kiss a toad
If a prince does not appear
Then take another road

Life is always in constant motion
Bear the weight, and you'll be bowed
Get away from a bad situation
And Take another road

Take another road away
You'll make good time, I'm sure
Another road will lead the way
That's what a road is for
If the road on which you travel
Is forked, there is a code
If you don't like one, then choose the other
And take another road

Grandma read her doctor's orders aloud
over a fresh cigarette.
Hummed a nameless hymn
of white clouds
as she recited the litany
of prescribed don't do's:
  
heavy lighting,
bending over,
long periods of standing.
  
This is how you convince
your grandchildren to clean your house
on the first day of Christmas vacation.
  
Grandma's hands are too full
to hold brooms and dusters anyway.
They are too busy balancing prayers
born between the flickering knees
Of her dust orange lighter.
And her patron saint has four legs.
All of which can be found
tattooed across the chest
of a Marlboro carton.
  
Grandma is a religious woman.
So she prays religiously.
Says the body is a temple
and hers is an old testament book
of nicotine sacrifices.
A fiery copper skin
of crop circle veins.
Each wrinkle a story.
Each story ending in flames.
For 5 decades
she has been burning.
And I am too old
to pretend the ash is invisible.
Too young to watch it
cuddle the curves
of her lips
and call it anything
but sacrilege.


And this is why I need
to vacuum the rugs.