I been fiddlin on this thing for one hundred twenty days
It seems like it just got nothin good to say
I strum and strum all day long
And nothing happens but noise
All I wanna do is play one song
Try to keep up with the boys
But no notes are coming out right
Its sure putting up a fight
I'll try something new
Press a little harder
But thats got my fingers feeling blue
And I'm no music martyr
So I'll take a ****
And see if the strings turn to smoke
And 'course they don't
But I'll keep playing
til' my fingies fall off
Or my calluses turn to leather
Cuz it can rain or pour
These strings just gotta soar
Don't really care if my songs a bore
At least my foots in the door.

There is a love no phrase defines
Eight letters mean nothing
but what you take from them.
And some take none.
So I'll take a few more letters
cos' eight seems not enough,
to tell of a love that rests
high above the lust
of a high school romance.
This is a love where you dance
through the night
with your shirts off
to music that doesn't even play.
You sneak abouts here and there
and hit bowls against the grass
and glance on lakes at night
the ultimate paradox shining
in mankind. Belligerent fights
with brooms ensue to be ended
by boxes of cardboard pizza
or red pepper pita and hummus.
Your parents say, "those guys again..."
And you say, "Hey! you're talkin' bout' my friends here."
So you go.
You take rides endless it seems.
Take trips to places before unseen.
Talks of blabber and sensibility.
Snuggle seshes end in wrestling matches.
If you wake up and your jaw hurts,
you and Maxy probably got drunk again.
If your clothes smell a bit,
chance that Andy dropped by.
If your mind's been blown
Mack and Will laid with you
by the pond for hours.
If you feel a love stronger
in your soul, Dbake's nearby.
If you laugh your *** off for days,
Dusty probably told a joke
or pulled his pants down.
If you can't wrap you mind
around some fact or story,
Bankman must have sprouted
out some MIT engineering bull
you wish you could understand.
But who gives a hey when
you're out chilling with the bros,
brews or not, smokes or tokes or nokes,
there is always a brotha out to chill.
And to you, I say
NAMASTE

Beating at the core of it all
lies some source that powers
the world without stall.
Thump ti dump di bump
it pounds, day in and out,
reverberating through
the cosmos and you.

You sing a song with
your footsteps down the lane,
which soars through the air
with its cherry blossom way.
We all play the tune if we know
it or not, its just doesn't quite
matter if you whistle or you pop.

When I see you on the street
I can wave or glance away.
My gesture is a harmony
each and every day. We
prefer to live together rather
than to grow a part. Live your life
connected, dissonance need not start.

So I know wha t we say
and i know how we say it
but why why why
THERES  too many lines i think
to stay in one at once
so where do we go
when theres nowhere else to go
but here
or maybe there if thats what you into
but im defnitiely not into that dude
so you better stay the **** away
or i may go crazy and rip your marinara
into a new toilet cloth for the towels
and then you will have noooooo
idea what the **** i just said

We spill our coffee and reach for the paper towels
We toss tons upon tubs of aluminum cans with the trash each hour
We turn lights on in the middle of the day when the brightest beacon is all we need
We stay glued to televisions evening in and morning out
ANd don't even listen to what they're saying
We sure hear it in the background
Of our cell phone chats and screaming brats
Need Need Need
Is all they say
Day after day
WHy must we need these things so badly
It takes more effort to get ******* and stupid
Than to peacefully sit
And think
About anything in particular
And nothing at the moment
Or something in time
But we do it anyways
Week and week and weak
ANd we wake up the next morning and toss the cans
In a plastic bag
WHich we throw in a bigger can
Which gets picked up by this rolling thundering truck of a thing
That burns more gas than a speedboat
Which is what we're all riding through this life
Rather than paddling down a gentle brook
In a hollowed out tree
Oh wait
We cut all of those down to make more things
Like post it notes we use once
And then toss in another metal can
With another plastic bag
Which as you may guess
Goes on and on in this excessive
And perpetual cycle of total waste
Those trees make pieces of plywood
Which kids paint designs on
And toss ***** back and forth
into more plastic cups
When we could just set our own glasses
Around the place in random spots
And they don't even need to be cups
They could be fishbowls
And you find a small item that does not need to be a ping pong ball it could be a lil toy lion or a seashell or a miniature book
Or an acorn
In fact
Why do we even have houses in the first place
It doesn't rain that often
And when it does
You might as well just climb under a tree
Or duck into a cliff
Or be ******* resourceful
And find a natural solution
Stop buying bag after bag after bag of plastic party cups
Take the ones you already have and make someting fun
You could use them to play a game where you build a palace
By balancing the cups and making walls and such
You can do that with anything you have in your house or outside or wherever you are
Find the fun in things
Think about the infitine number of things you could do with each item you see
We should just sort through our dumps and take evertyhgin and make it into something useful
Stop resource production completely
And live naturally.

As a little boy he wandered,
explored the forest
of life. One small, smooth
and jagged piece seeking out
those around in hope
that they’d one day
latch together, make a whole.
Trillions, gajillions, infinitillions
of parts, each unique, each
the same in a relative way.
Faces appeared and stayed,
others faded away. Ideas
blossomed gently, exploding
to states of mind, concrete views
or dust scattered with the wind.
Slowly he grew.

Some fear attachment,
but this boy lived for love.
Love for souls, life, ecstasy,
youth, holding hands, dancing,
grooves and groves of wonderment.
Some years went and others didn’t
but this boy(‘s puzzle plot)
had expanded to an extent
unbeknownst to him. Smoke
and mirrors mystify and cloud
the lucid mind.
Sometimes the crystalline clarity
never returns and the pieces fall,
a part of nothing
but ignorantly serene delusions.

This boy got lucky, though.
Some light, some gustling breeze
scattered the foggy reflections,
debilitating for so long.
The natural allure of a young lady
can lift a man from any sinkhole,
be it momentarily or neverending…
He saw those bright brown eyes
shining one day. A sublimely
beautiful face no words justify.
In he walked from the rain
and called out, hey!
So it began, the pieces reappeared.
For now, the others didn’t matter.
Two minute beings in a sea
of colored cardboard fragments,
secure. This girl, she showed him
the big picture, or lack thereof.
She pushed him to create for himself,
for her, them, noone, everything.
So they dreamed.

Ay' there all ya drunkerds
Ahoy to those that sin
I hope i aint been slurrin words
For I'm a few pints in!

So grab your glass
And heres a toast
To the merry, we be green!
May your days be short
and your nights be long
and your mornings, not so mean.