LE/DC

There's a lady we all know,
her ****, she loves to show.
She's buying the highway to heaven,
she only has a money account of seven.
Living hard, living tough,
loves *** that is rough.
Ain't nowhere she'd rather be,
she's living to be set free.
There's a note on the wall,
it's for her name to call.
In a bush by the swamp,
that's where she loves to romp.
She has no rhyme or reasons,
cause you know words have four meanings.
She's now on the stairway to hell,
she didn't fall, she fell.
No red lights, no school zone,
just a giant hole surrounded by stone.
A weird feeling she gets,
when she looks to the south,
no longer can she use her juicy mouth.
Ooh, it makes her wonder,
ooh, it makes her really ponder.
Nothing will slow her down,
her ******* have turned brown.
The devil's calling her to join him,
she starts singing her favorite hymn.
She could't afford the highway to heaven,
she barely had enough for a Slurpie from 7-11.
And as she zooms down the stairway road,
slow motion she wishes was her mode.
She's on the stairway to hell,
her soul she had to sell.
She's on the stairway to hell,
no stopping at that famous California hotel.

One more
cigarette

One less thought
captured by my notebook

I know
I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat
One with Silver Sherman's
and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow

Yet I've spent more time
Lighting Maduro paper
than sparking ideas
onto trees that are utilized for musings
rather than consumption

I inhale carbon monoxide,
(in line following the crowd -- by choice)
Rather than exhaling the same
for the leaf-lungs of trees

I stretch for something
A dichotomy of Pockets

Paper lined for thoughts
or
Tobacco twined for my subduing

One more, One less

One more circus of circumstance,
One less bridge to nowhere
One more apple to pick,
One less bone

I wonder,
"When the sands of time
should be sifted through my hands
and not my mind?"

But my mind continuously filters,
wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone
amounts to more or less

You fool!
Stop staring at the back of the clock
Discontinue your prescription to madness!

Watch instead the gears turning
not in anxious fear,
but in wondrous awe

Everything: a means to its own end;
not an end to its own means

And yet,
blackened by the smoke,
hardened by the repitition,
you take another drag

And all I can say
is that my throat screams for tea
and my mind
for resolution

One more thought,
One less execution.


--


I know
That if I was self-driven enough
I could compose a chart
(or a melody)
that shows the correlation
between the distance of you
from my thoughts
and the intimacy of nicotine
to my mouth

Here is a glass of water from my well.
It tastes of rock and root and earth and rain;
It is the best I have, my only spell,
And it is cold, and better than champagne.
Perhaps someone will pass this house one day
To drink, and be restored, and go his way,
Someone in dark confusion as I was
When I drank down cold water in a glass,
Drank a transparent health to keep me sane,
After the bitter mood had gone again.

emotionally unavailable or ******* people
myself mutilating chosen vice

(that desperate to feel
needed, wanted and appreciated
i teach pigs to fly
unattainable and insane
but driven by a need i can't control but understand
the war for control over my unfulfilled needs
the worst kind of abuse, chronic insecurity)

usually comes to an explosive end
me, demanding revolution
them, startled

And I heard my name called throughout the sea
Until my fore thoughts banished me
Into the harsh evergreen
My dreams seem to flow and vanish
In and out of light
Darkness wraps around me,
And bright were my eyes
But all things must go.
Even the brightest of stars must die
And fade into the sky
To make room for another
Like you or I.

Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.