She pushed a strange religion
With hand-printed Southern Gothic tracts
Crumpled, wrinkled, stuffed in the pockets of her robe
Though the name on those notes was Yahweh
Her smile betrayed witchcraft
If you tried
You could read it between the lines

On the surface she seemed to assimilate well
The new rules ****** upon her
She tried and tried to take it in stride
But this new paradigm had broken stronger souls than hers
Days like months in the Year of the Snake
Slithered all too slowly towards yet another night
Spent under cover of darkness on hospital beds

She pressed those tracts on me all of the time
At first I'd read them, admire the artistry
The thrift store Ram Dass influences
Collected a few like flyers for R.E.M. shows in the early 80s
Until their true nature was revealed to me
By a voice that seemed to come from my crown chakra
The only aspect of my personality that I implicitly trusted

On the day I left she found out I was going
She could not care less, despite the "love thy neighbor" ramblings of her mission
It only meant that she was staying
Indeed it meant that she would be staying for a long, long time
Long, long, long
She only had so much religion to go around
It was failing her now

The last time I saw her, as I sprinted to the door finally unlocked
I stopped dead in my tracks
She lay on the ground, the ***** filthy ground
Face down, beating it with both hands
Her wails and crying filled the fourth floor
She looked up and her face was grotesque, dripping wet tears smearing and smudging shadow and mascara
Finally broken

I knew the feeling

Always some drunk ******* standing in the back of the bar who feels his life's mission is to continuously shout boisterous requests for "Freebird" during the encore.

Second hand smoke thick as English fog and deadlier than a toxic chemical spill in the middle of the driveway.

The load out and equipment set up in which the drummer inevitably excuses himself from working with any other piece of equipment besides his drums, since  "there a big enough hassle on their own".

The inevitable bartering for free beer which during later years became a case of being lucky if you got your drinks at 50% off but even then sometimes you wouldn't be given a tab.

The lone dancer at the very beginning of the first set, never the most attractive lady I in the house and all too often she made it through a whole song without a dance partner.  It always seemed like some kind if code, especially when an inebriated gentleman would hook up with her. But I never figured out what the jig was about.

Always a drummer in the house, the real deal or an enthusiastic amateur. They will find a way to play the drummer's kit. Don't even try to stop them, for any reason. They will play.

Likewise the older gentleman with the button up cowboyshirt, the one with the stale pack of Marlboros in the front pocket, he will try to impress you by claiming to know every song Hank Williams ever sang. The wise gambler bets that indeed he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of Hank's repertoire. Unfortunately he never claimed to have the pipes to pull one or two or three off himself...but that won't stop him from begging and soon enough he'll be under the spotlight singing "Your Cheatin' Heart" with every word and melody spot on but voice that could turn Hank's mother away. He is the anti-PR agent for Hank Williams. After people hear him butcher the songs they don't want to know what Hank sounded like singing them.

The bouncer is your friend. If such is not the case before the show begins make every effort available short of paying him your whole salary to secure his loyalty. Trust me here.

To be continued
Yep, much more to com

Now lay back and forget
All the days that brought you here
Or make a mental monument
Of hours painting empty skies
Of moments lost in wondering why
The colors bleed without the rain
To wash the canvas dry
Still they run, these memories
Together make a life
Flesh and blood for ghosts and stone
To wear out for a time
'Til entropy's harsh design
Leaves nothing left behind
That wasn't there before
The beginning of time

Good intentions buy nothing
In the formless space of this machine
Not even the soon forgotten happy dream
Comes without a sinister scheme
Dead weight of nothing, heavier than air
To the fish caught on the hook unawares
This monument would grow so large
There wouldn't be room anymore
To notice the moment before it passes
To find your way through to the door
That opens unto forgetfulness
Cursed but just as often blessed
So let it go, lay down, forget
You haven't really even started yet

Wipe the slate clean
Abandon preconceptions
I will prove your reflection a lie
As you turn to face the other way
As you turn to face another day
Don't you regret not being able to forget
When the harvest of your ego
Piles worthless memories at your door
More and more, how could there be more
Dismiss the reaper, send him home
With his razor sharp sickle so finely honed
Tell him "Leave me alone! Leave me be and go on!"
No longer scared of his skeleton bones
11:11, this must be the time
There must be something you need to be reminded
But what, that's the rub, where can you find it
Can't feel it or hear it or smell it or see it
And it travels the speed of light
Close your eyes and catch that flight
Dream your world and see the sights
Magical tygers burning bright
But no souvenirs, travel light

the window to the world
frightens and confuses
terrorizes
makes me grateful for distance
and an early bedtime

These lines are written
In the slow nowhere zone of sleep
My fingers animated with thoughts
All their own
I don't have to pretend
Ambien's licking in
Like a donkey straight
To the beck of my neck
I've seen it done enough time
Not to fooled into thinking it's here for
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna hara hara hara Rama. Hara Rama , ram  EMram hare hare.  
Maybe that's the strong wind that guided my pen
Benevolent trickster soon to.bury. The things
that make him whole
Someone is mowing theirbli
It happens on ambien
But I swear there's. Meaning somewhere hidden between bags of honey oil **** ands great changjbbbbb
He might be a nice guy......  Nice and buxom, he could eliminate the thy free of  before his Pixar
My mind thinks one thing and fgisvonytspio

I'll never forget the look on that dude's face
Walking through the door into the store
To pay for a tankful of gasoline
He reached into his pocket
For cash but he didn't mean to pull out
And drop that big sack of marijuana
That hit the slate floor with a "tap"
He pretended he wasn't embarrassed
But the expression on his befuddled mug
Told quite a different story
I knew right away
He wasn't the generous, sharing kind
So I just pointed and said "you dropped something"
Bending over I could almost read his mind
He was afraid I was going to call the cops
He needn't have worried but it ****** me off that he did
Even more so that he didn't offer me a bud as appreciation for my silence
But I suppose you get these kinds of people in all walks of life
Besides he'd never seemed to get over the shock
And covetous look in my eye when I first saw him lose control of the plastic bag
He paid for the gas without much of a word
Walked back out into the heat and his
Luxury automobile that was clearly outside of his price range
"Goodbye,"I said, "O selfish dope head
You would probably have been a drag to get high with anyway...make sure you didn't drop anything else on the floor, you stupid *****. I'd hate to be stepping over little chunks of hash you forgot were in your in the same pocket as the dope. "
My opinion of you has not changed
And it's been YEARS