I was faced with a conundrum just the other day.
You see, a girl that I had fancied -- she took my heart away

She cut it open it with a rather rusty sharp utensil
then she penned the most beautiful lines with that sanguine pencil

Her writing with my AB Positive were delicate and wonderful
as I lay upon the ground, seeping by the bucketful

While I will admit that I was all manners of distressed
I also couldn't help to be tremendously impressed.

Let me tell you 'bout a man called Chicago Robinson
with eyes like jade and breath smell like Jameson
He dances with girls who have skin taste like Cinnamon
He don't think about life, 'cause he too busy livin' it

He came out of his momma croonin' smooth as Sinatra
His voice makes the noises that'll sure hypnotize ya
The girls they all dance to the beat cause they wanna
they slide up and down like they coated in butter

He don't got many clothes, but he's got his own style
His eyes pierce on through you, he got steel in his smile
When you meet him you might not know how to feel
He'll fix you up quick, and you'll be soarin' with eagles

Chicago does what he does when he do what he do
while he's tellin' his stories in the language of Blues
He don't care where he goes, don't have much to lose
So long as he has women, music, and *****

You like hearin' stories? he gotsa lots of 'em
You want a fight? Best be movin' on, son
He's the best and the worst inside of all of us
There just ain't no one else like Chicago Robinson

I wear my emotions on my sleeve

  You ignored the gentle wash label...

bleached them with your stained whites

   as you sat on top of the machine

                           in your underwear

                  enjoying the good vibrations

You even had a cigarette after....
   lipstick stained, hanging from your smile

            Reminding me that it was, after all, my fault
            and I should be more aware of what I leave
lying around

"I'm not Martha F*ing Stewart"

That's the first honest thing you've told me today.

Life moves fast.

No, really.  Life moves at an insane speed

We're currently hurtling through space
at 2.7 million miles and hour.  By the
time you've finished reading this one
sentence, you have moved far enough
to go from Seattle to New York and back

Just sitting at your desk

By the time you are twenty five you
will have traveled approximately
five hundred ninety billion miles
from the spot at which you took
your first breath.

That's a lot of mileage

I like to think that there are
tiny remnants of you and I
floating throughout our universe.
Atoms that have rubbed off of us,
that have fused and split with other
atoms, eventually making their way
off of our planet into space.

There's a trail of you spanning hundreds
of billions of miles all leading back to one
point in space and time where you existed
for a fraction of a second.  No one else on
earth could ever have come into being in
that spot.

A thousandth of a second and you're already
a mile away.

That's your moment.  That's where you began

I'd like to think that's where we go
once we've gone.

We came from the stars

It seems an appropriate
ending

One train leaves Santa Fe going east at seven eleven
destination's unknown and the speed is irrelevant
Another leaves Boston at eight twenty five
We know when it left. When will it arrive?

If eighteen percent aboard are practicing Christians
and twenty eight percent are worshiping Krishna
what percent will be spared when the trains have collided?
Which subset will have a better chance of survival?

If there are five homosexuals with their life partners
and thirty two fundies with hate signs and markers
What are the odds that of the forty-two mentioned,
that ten gay folks survive.  Was it divine intervention?

If you factor and account for wind speed and sun
If you double check your figures (and carry The One)
Are those who climb from the wreckage unharmed
more righteous than the ones who lie dormant and calm?

How long will you stare silently at the equation
searching for a solution that leads to salvation?
When all is said and done at the end of the day
There are no survivors, so says F=ma

Yesterday, I walked up
to a tiger, and asked him
if he was jealous of
the leopard's spots

As it turns out

Tigers don't talk.

On a related note,
I no longer walk

In my mind exists a pit of black quicksand
where memories come to die, slowly
sinking into the deep abyss

You are in a glass box,
sliding down
staring up
begging for rescue

If I rescue you from the depths
I shatter the glass reflecting
the perfection of who I
want to remember

Leaving only reality

So the real question is

Should I forget the goddess?
Or should I remember the devil?