The penthouse view is not so great
for seeing details like expression
on the beggars face in the city park.
Private jets fly much too high
to pick up hitchhikers along
that lonesome country road.
And Capitol Hill is much too steep
for the poor to climb
they clamber at it's foot.
Nobody asks that you walk along that lonely road,
or beg in a city park.
We only ask you don't look past
the ones who do below you.
I can't think straight
when others feed
to my brain
The final product
comes out distorted
from right ear to left
cogs turning in my head
The gears don't mesh
when stories don't fit
the mind was made for straight
and can't take these bent up lies
They say that you die twice
Once when you breathe your last
and again when your name
is spoken no more
I'm not afraid of breathing my last
to feel life slip from my body
I'll meet that head on and pass into beyond
whatever awaits afterwards
The death that scares me
is the second fatality
when memories linger no more
nobody remembers, nobody cares
slowly slip away
out of sight
out of mind
like I never existed at all
distance from relationships
assures they never hurt you
Like the dentists anesthesia
the distance numbs the pain
but takes your taste and speech
until the feeling is regained.
Whats the point of living
cooped inside a lonely room?
Away from storms and danger
but the radiance of the sun
never penetrates the armor
of your safe and lonely womb.
when I killed emotion
it took me with into the tomb.
desert winds dry out the sun-cracked dirt
dust rises from the southern dunes to fall
sand coats the tongue and works into the eyes
mirages fade away leave our throats parched
the heat combines with horrors that we face
of human kind explosions and the smoke
that comes from black gold bubbling underground
and floats into the hazy purple sky
someday we venture home to family life
our scars on skin heal faster than the mind
we're different than before we travelled east
to deserts filled with oil and dust and smoke
Every day we're hungry, thirsty, cold.
Looking for protection
to survive another day.
Days go by we're tired out and old.
cans hold our collections
under newspapers and rags.
And though your gaze turns back to piles of gold
we still need protection
even when you look away.
Sometimes I bash my head against the wall
until I crack my skull and thought flows out
I let it ooze out from the wound
and tingle down my neck
until it lands upon the page and leaves a burn