What happens to your name
After it is written down?

Does it fly to the dead and remind
Them of the beauty they have lost?
-or-
Does it travel the world slipping
Poison in to the cups of little tyrants?
-or-
Does it blow from town to city driping
Glue in to the eyes of racists?
-or-
Does it turn in to grass
Where grass is needed most?
-or-
Does it hang from a chain
In the shape of a cross?
-or-
Does it fall in to a poor mans dream
Sparkling like a stream of gold?
-or-
Does it sit by your side
Watching you grow old?

What happens to your name
After it is written down?

it is about the time
when gold meets
the earth

the light emitted
romantically sings
the land to slumber

it is about the time
when thoughts drift
and eyes wander

they follow
painted brush strokes
made by pulling winds

it is about the time
you call
it is distant and faint

a sweet sound
carried to my ear
as it is meant to be

it is about the time
I turn to you in half light
As twilight fills your face

It is beautiful
soft and warm
in the waning sun

When I was sixteen
I would trade
my allowance
for some feelings
every Friday night.
I'd pull on the strings
and pull on my hair
until I was discordant
and bald and
still in the dark.

I tried hard to see
what they wanted me to see
in country, when it came to metal
I just couldn't feel the steel and
hip hop failed to have
the same effect on me.
When I was a sick teen,
see, that's when I found indie.




What did you think you'd find in the avant-garde?
beautiful, new, perplexing, plexi-glass box
where rock stars go to suffocate
and die
(keep kitsch alive).
Really,
what did you think you'd find in the junk-yard?

Glad I missed the rhythm of those loops.

There is a master mind
A hidden intelligence
Behind everything and
Whether we perceive or
Not this spirit or entity is
Here for us to learn and to
Grow and to learn the ways
Of the master if we are able
To learn the masters way in
Life even though it is never
Easy it is always worth it in
The end and it is why we
Continue to struggle and
To learn and to grow and
To do it all over again as
We learn a little more
About ourselves and how
To truly live free with love
And complete openness and
Connection with everything
And everyone that you meet
And understanding that life
Is a lot less complicated than
We make it out to be and we
Can live without fear or hate
Or even anger in our hearts
And we can be truly free and
Full of joy and love if we follow
The master the master will show
Us the way to the master's heart
And promise for a better tomorrow
And a better way to live today right
Now and for eternity as you learn
Your final lesson and depart again
To return to learn the lesson all over

they call her bus stop Betty, don't mind the bags
the matted hair and how her clothes are in rags
she smiles with missing teeth
shows you the shoes on her feet
covered in holes, one missing a heel
"it don't matter, it's how I feel
when the clouds come rolling by
i know i ain't got a reason to cry
because God been good to me
he ain't done, this ain't who i'm gonna be"
whatever she has she's willing to share
as she folds her hands in prayer
gives thanks for a life many would pity
but she sees real beauty, knows what's pretty
she sees past the violence, the crime
there's so much more than dirt and grime
that makes up this woman, she's hiding wings
i feel the faith every time she sings
and when i see her weep
i know it just goes so deep
beyond what i could understand
and how she fits here in this land
i buy her breakfast, we become friends
we talk about beginnings, about ends
how life is one great circle, constantly spinning
i see her watching me, she's grinning
and it's in those dark brown eyes, that toothless smile
that makes me realize it's all worth while
and that there's a life greater than I'm living
the purpose here is loving... and giving

to preach insanity
screaming blanks in the streets
twisted limbs
hang from twisted bodies
malnourished and dangerous
the edge people
they live life
balanced on their tiptoes
in a bathtub
choking on their sins
sins which they didn't commit
an old rocking chair
sits in a wooded clearance
forgotten and mossy
hopes and dreams
stripped layer by layer
until the marrow is all gone
to preach madness
that's what they want from me
to call us mad men
but there's no such thing
there
is no
such thing