Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsicord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:

Thinking hard about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
before discovering
that I was
alone.

This time,
I lit a match
With the intent to start a fire.

A fire that was quickly extinguished,
But the damage was done.

I fell for my best friend
And in doing so,
Sealed my fate.

And so the pattern continues.
Another one on the list and out of my life.

But as I begin to pick up the pieces and rebuild the walls,
I can’t help but linger.
Thinking and hoping,
That maybe, just maybe,
He’ll change his mind.

I know this hope,
I’ve felt it before.
But never have I believed in it,
Until now.

Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.
The fear of being alone.
The fear of pain.
The fear to trust and love.

Hope is the only reason I went in for that first kiss.
Proof is his hands grabbing my face, pulling me closer.

A little hope is effective,
A lot of hope is dangerous.
A spark is fine,
As long as it’s contained.

I let it run wild instead,
And got lost chasing after it.

I have yet to find my way back.

The summer camp
Isn't what you love-
It's the trees
And the acceptance
That you don't find
Back home
Because back home
The air is filled
With too many chemicals
For anyone
To really accept anyone else

Because instead of
An occasional reminder
It's constant awareness
That we
Are the problem

So come here and pray
To your fictional gods
But know
That if there were a god
It wouldn't have created
Beings capable
Of only finding solace
In something so untrue
To the reality
Of themselves

I folded up the sheets of rain as I walked slowly down the country lane on one wet Sunday afternoon,
it was late in June or early July,can't remember, don't know why
my mind was flooded with the same old chatter
pitter,patter on the leaves and from the trees.
I sat under the dryness of the ancient oak and lit a smoke which drifted slowly in the summer breeze
and ate a Branston pickle and cheese soft roll,drank some lemonade.

Days like this made me who I am
a soaked up,washed out yesterday man
but I exist
despite the persistence of the rain,
I play the game and play it well
the proof being that I'm here to tell the tale and smoke a while,
while the heavens empty of the sky
don't know why or for what length of time
days like this will be all mine.
Under the trees
out of the breeze
somebody please
stop the rain.