Dams give way,
and women drown.
If you’re going to fall
then make it count.
Don’t just slip
but dive deep down,
into the depths of hell,
where hollow truth is found.


You should have seen me then
   when my hair was brushing the sky.
Lesser men strained their necks
   just trying to see that high.
So I made them medicine
    because I was that kind of guy.
Yes, I slept soundly
    in my nightly bed of lies

I broke bread with the poor
   and took drinks with the rich.
Some said I gave too much
   but I could never resist
an outreached hand
    and the implications in it.
Little did I know
   how palm can grow to fist

Then it started to change;
   that god forsaken splash,
too late, too cold,
   I froze and turned my back.
Mirrors haunted my head
   long after the fact,
and the trumpets that praised me
   changed keys to laughs

So I tried to plug my gaps
   like a doomed sailor fighting the sea,
with women and with whiskey
   then **** and ecstasy.
I filled those women’s hearts
    and left them empty,
but that’s of no concern
   when I live for only me.

I tried to burn the town
   with my wicked words and ways,
but I was still given praise
   for my false yesterdays.
Sticking to the straight and arrow
   had led me astray.
So I set sail for better shores
   where all life is grey.

So now I haunt this bar
   the Pope of Little Mexico.
I make rain with my tongue
   just to make the Nausea grow.
I flew with the Eagles
   now I’ve fallen down so low.
Things have never been better
   I have found my heart’s true home


Dams give way,
and women drown.
If you’re going to fall
then make it count.
Don’t just slip
but dive deep down,
into the depths of hell,
where hollow truth is found.

Red roses, red ribbons, and war.
I’ll fill you up and leave you wanting more.
White wine, white lies, and dust.
I’ll turn your “might” into a “must”.
Dark eyes, dark nights, and a game.
I’ll be the winner, you’ll bear the pain.
Clear head, clear heart, and hope
I’ll hang by your feet at the end of my rope.

You’ll dance on my fiddle,
and seek my acquittal,
as I stand, non-committal
and feed you love’s riddle.

One hit, one kiss, and a hook.
I’ll script the ending to your repeatable book.
Two more, too much, then again, more
I’ll be the curse you long to endure.
Three hopes, three ghosts, and a ****’s crow.
I’ll write the only truth you’ll choose to know.
For what? For whom? You’ll plead.
I’ll offer a reminder: you exist for me.

I’ll act as gravity,
a pull towards depravity,
and at the brink of insanity,
I’ll walk away, earth-shattering.

This I pledge:
To my peers,
To my enemies,
To my unborn children,
To those who have left blood in the streets
(And their better years unrealized),
To my Mother,
To strangers,
To myself.

Yes, this I pledge:

I will be a warrior.
I will charge at full speed,
Without reservation,
Having removed my brakes,
Having cut holes in my safety net,
Having burnt all bridges leading back to safety,
I will rage and rally
against injustice
against oppression
against empty stomachs
against tear soaked pillows
against razors stained by blood
against those who hold open arms while exhaling poison
against silence
against apathy
against the chains holding humanity down.

This I swear,
This I promise,
This I guarantee,
This is my bond,

This I pledge:

That injustice and I
shall be in constant battle.
He will remain busy throughout the night
and I will wake in a sweat
and sprint from my bed
only to return once I have been properly bloodied
and removed a chunk of skin from the beast of oppression.
Wake, repeat.

I will not be win.
Defeat will not be defeated.

But, this I pledge:
So long as I breathe
there will be no peaceful coexistence
between pointless suffering and my soul.

This I pledge:
To give my life in this struggle,
For you and you and you.

Familiar sand
Makes  bed below my toes.
Strain to open my eyes
Find they've been glued closed.
Where are the waves?
Noon’s sun is starting to hurt,
It hits me in the throat;
I’m lost in the desert

I spin round and round and round
Till I’m dizzy with disease,
Then fall down and down and down and down,
Right down to my knees,
And then I beg and beg and beg and beg
Oh please, someone please,
Won’t you run and run and run and run
Come to rescue me

I never knew
I was fragile like glass,
Till the cloth got pulled
And I shattered with a crash,
Now I’m stuck waiting
For all the Queen’s men,
To work impossible magic
Making me whole again

I was a statue
Standing firm and strong,
Braved wind and rain
Fought four years long,
And all of these pieces
Add up to none.
Cause I used to be two
Now I’ll never be one.

Like a child, I don't know how to love in halves.
I ignite, touch the sky, and crash.
I sun-tan and smile, laying in the ash.
Like a soldier, I don't live in half.

Like an earthquake, I tend to reach too far.
Always chasing round mistakes at bars,
or running down mad shooting stars.
Like resolutions, I never get too far.

Like Atlas, I pose proud for all eyes,
using my burden as the prestige disguise,
I keep hidden my motives and all I despise.
Like believers, not blind, I just close my eyes.

Like the night, I'm destined to die young.
Even if death comes at one hundred and one,
to the door of one loved and a job well done.
Like the last breath off innocence, I'll still be too young.

So often I write the phrase “the wind whispered”,
but the wind is not whispering now.
No.
The wind is screaming violently in my ears.
The frenzied scream of rebel soldiers in the midst of bloodshed
cognizant of the ****** that lies ahead.
Maniacal.

Yet, it is not the howling air I think of
even as my hair is tossed in all directions,
like bowing trees appeasing a hurricane.
There is no time to think of the wind.
The concrete is only thirteen stories away.

Somehow I think of something even less relevant than the movement of air.
I was nine.
The ice cream truck parked next to the football field
playing that song.
The one that calls to children like a Siren.
The proud trumpet of capitalism.
I approached,
“I’ll have the pink one please, with gumball at the bottom.”
“You got it.  That’ll be a dollar fifty young man”
my hand slides into my left pocket  –
quarter, dime, penny, penny, dime.
Right pocket -
Dime. Dime. Nickel.
Impatient eyes.
Back pocket s-
Nothing.
Horror.
Embarrassment.
Then the man steps up from behind me,
gray hairs creeping out of his nose.
Gold ring, with a ruby red stone.
Three dollars on the counter,
“Make it two of the pink ones.”

My mind has not seen that man in years.
Perhaps I have made a mistake.
Then I see her eyes,
and I know have not.

I sometimes wish I wasn't such an ardent adherent to rationality,
so I could believe the universe truly has it out for me,
but I know the world gives no thought to my shattered dreams.
My bruised essence is a symptom of my own disease.

This callous ellipse will continue to spin, twist, and turn,
unyielding to my protests, unrepentant for my burns.
I sit at strict attention, though there is no lesson to be learned.
I inhale endless ashes, searching for meaning in an urn.

Some see spirits, for better or worse,
but the first time I ate mushrooms, I up and left the Church.
Yes, I once reveled in fairy-tales of the absurd,
until my mind saw the pellicle-like nature of the Word.

If I could turn around and rewrite my story, would I?
Is it better to be alone with truth, or sit at the joyous table of lies?
The truth is, it was never something for me to decide.
That part of me once lived, but like all life, it had to die.