Fix my head, it doesn't care, bring out the dead, but comb their hair, mar the walls with what you found, lift it up, to smash it down.

I am not the man, you are looking for.

Poison spoon fed the nodding King and ended ancestors.

Holy cows bought government *****
and ate suicides grown by ***** Kubla Khan gospels.

Shantih, Leviticus, and other proper thoughts
kissed arms of air and made islands from memories of breakfast.

Eternity perished in the illusion of swallowed tongues
in the belly of an infant—
and yesterday,

Only one bullet of hallelujah stood swimming.

I like Good Pens
With nice ink
And the right feel.

I like the pens
The ones so nice
They transform my writing
And make my regular words
Come to life on the page.

When I have
A Good Pen
I will write
Just to write,
Similar to how
I will talk
Just to talk
When my voice sounds
Just right.

When I read words
Written with a Good Pen
I stare at them a moment longer
Captivated.

But when I see
Words
And only
Words
Voiceless, Breathless,
I cringe and turn away,

In search of new words.

The words of beauty and thought
With elegance and meaning
As if the writer breathed
His life into their bodies.
His children are his words
And he cradles them within
Until they spill out
On spaces within lines
On pages of books unwritten.

When I see these words
They are not always written
With a Good Pen.
Sometimes they are sketched
In a crude sort of oil
Lacking the beauty
Of a Good Pen’s stroke.

But still I read them
And I trace them with my fingers
Stained with the makeshift ink
And the salt of the soul
Because these words are
Simply more than their ink
And their fathers aren’t defined
By the quality of their pens.

I work the day shift
and work the night shift with you on my mind
dust covers your old wooden picture frame.
I clear away the debris and again
I'm back to where we left off
me chasing you
trying to grab your hand one more time
But I always seem to just grasp the end of your sleeve.
I sit on the curb with my hands up to my face
and remember when I drew a heart with our names in the sand
I try to figure out why this dust covers my heart with me waking up wiping it all off again.
Do I wanna let the dust build so I forget about you and you wither away?
Do I wanna sit at the table and look behind my back and not see you fumbling in the dish water?
Do I wanna go threw my laundry and find clothes you left behind?
I dont have the answer to these questions because as much as I wanted to stop you from going
I know I wasnt right for you
and I know the best thing for you was to run away without even giving me a last kiss.
But baby I miss you
and I want to set this house on fire so it doesnt smell of you.

I walk around town
flicking cigerrte butts
hands in my pockets
and no where to really go.
my mom told me
that when I came out her womb
I didn't even cry
she said I just looked at her
like I was lost.
The indians call this a Lost Soul that died
and rebirthed not knowing they died.
I remember my mom said that I didnt start crying till
I layed down on her chest.
She knew it wasnt cause I was sad
but tears of happiness that I finally found a Home.
She said I was a good baby but the docter said that I'd struggle all my life.
She asked why... well Nancy your son has bad legs he'll need to be in leg braces for most of his toddler life.
My mom knew that I used my legs to much in my past life and I was paying for it now.
She told the docter dont worry all my baby needs is a place to rest his head.
Let his legs rest and he'll be walking again.
Now im walking flicking these ciggerte butts
thinking back to what my mother said
but it looks as if I'll find my way back to that silent birth
and recycle this whole life
for what its worth.

I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.

I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.

I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.

I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.

arts and crafts and kids on drugs
dream catchers and storytellers
in tree-houses and sheds
bare feet and bare legs

magic

let me share
i'll cut you a slice of the skies to keep in your eyes
so you can always see beauty
and learn to accept it when it's lying in front of you
remember how gorgeous life is

sunsets and fire pits and tents pitched in the mountains
solar flares and lunar eclipses
in telescopes lenses and lovers eyes

this IS profound
and we SHOULD take note
the universe bares wonderful gifts
and we are fools to let them slip so quickly through our hands
we've been here before
and we've known each other for eons
don't go forgetting

lava monsters and yellowing pages and smiles recognizable for miles
sage brush and card games
with cowboys and poets
cheap-seat prophets bound by collective conscious and some kind of mysticism

two-track game trails and smoke rings rising from the west
find your way home

i'll hide behind my sunset eyes and river-bed curves until your return