There's a man outside the window
in faded blue jeans,
He's spun a web of lies and
deceit I aint never seen.

>Finger nail clippings and old emails
    Watching the world go 'round
>Angels like fireflies
   Watching the world go down

There's a woman outside the window
in a faded flannel gown,
She's not much to look at
when you're lookin' down.

>Angels like fireflies
  Can you tell sky, from ground?
>Carnival rides for cash pay-out
  And I'm watching the room spin 'round
...
"gas station guy" is gone now
bars hold the only light.
and if I'm lucky (through singin' here,
we can just call it a night.

>Angels like fireflies
  Can you tell sky, from ground?
>Dusty strings on this old guitar
  & It's time to turn around

7 minutes to midnight
in this old town.
When I'm done playing here,
probably never see me around

She pasted memories, to look back on later,
to little scraps of colored paper.
Placed in a book, wrapped up in ribbon,
laid on the shelve in plain sight hidden.

Photos of family, and picture show stubs,
all the little things that reminded her of
  the times before we all were grown.
  In that big empty house, it didn't feel so alone
     with those neatly arranged, to smile at later,
      carefully laid tinny scraps  of colored paper .


Every page told a story of her life,
years that sometimes escaped her mind.
Children, grandchildren, all were there,
when she forgot a name, she'd sit and stare.
  Her mind, she knew, was almost gone,
  but with that little scrap book, life would go on...
    
   ...In those pages of places, people and times,
       she placed each little note on every line...
  
    ...In collections of impressions to recall again later,
        carefully kept new  on colored paper .


I'm sorry to say, I only found it later,
those photos of the life that made her.
Past down to my sister for safe keeping,
I saw her looking through it, quietly weeping.

  I guess those times now, are all but gone.
  Grandma kept a scrapbook, like I write songs...

   ...They're just memories, to sing again later,
      like little bits of life    on colored paper  .

And these dreams will be the death of me.
Broken sleep &
relentless lethargy.
I'm out of control,
so I'm told.
I've slipped outside of my soul,
or so I'm told.
My nose runs consistently,
Yet I don't have a cold.
Now everything hurts,
and yet I feel so cold.
REM dream sequences;
play me on repeat.
play on repeat,
Everybody hurts too but they carry on,
Won't admit defeat.
Not me,
I bend under the pressure,
Malleable,
& then break what's,
Valuable.
I'm weak at the knees,
alieness in alloness of stress;
Please let me rest,
Stop stealing my shut eye by looking in to mine,
I walked the line,
But crossed it,
No going back now I think,
I shudder each time I blink.
And in dreams I believe I could be happy,
Or at least not so sad,
Wishing to feel those feelings
That I've predominately lacked.
Now in dreams I wait to see a GP
in reality,
So he can endorse these feelings into clarity,
Prescribe me patronisingly with 50mg of setraline;
"I'm sure alls not as bad as it seems"
He says so candidly,
Whilst I'm sat here,
can't even speak,
trapped at the mercy of these endorphinemachines.

I Ran

She had this hedonistic Houdini nature,
She escaped from Shiraz,
Her personal Alcatraz,
She laughed as I asked;
How did you escape?

"I Ran" she said "I Ran"

She was particularly Persian,
Beautiful soul,
Perfect prose,
stunning, gorgeous,
My dreams came true,
As we ran the gauntlet between our acquaintances judgemental glare.

She walked through the door,
With shallow breath and a panting chest;
Windswept hair.
Late.

How did you get here I asked?

"I Ran"

She came so far,
To say I was her King.
Her shy Shah,
She said.
The concept of this,
Flew over my head,

As I asked where she was from,
she paused for a second

&

told me she came from Iran.

I've traveled through 45 states these past 4 years, I stayed awake most of last night counting them... I started, in some ways not far from bed where I lie now.
But, in many other ways, where I began seems to be millions of miles away.
I've walked many of those miles unafraid.
Some of those roads, I walked near wishing for death.
But along every path, down every road and across every track, I took you... I took you with me in my mind and in my soul, down every river, and along every shore.

I've written before that I felt lost, "adrift" at sea with no land in sight.
And I think, at times, I wanted nothing more... Nothing more than to remain adrift, and to die.
[Alone]
But now, lately I've begun to see and feel something different... A lighthouse, and beyond rocks, solid ground.

It may turn out to be nothing but sand, but it feels too much like "Hope" often.
I AM feeling also, more and more, that "fear" or Tide and Moon, and the cold loneliness of January night sky, so great and Empty... I'm not certain anymore that I could ever truly make the shore.

This, "Us," Me ....Will never turn out, or end on a happy note, (this isn't a movie), and I Am sorry, at last, for something.
... I am sorry that I may've given up at last.
I may never reach a shore.


I close my eyes, and I'm tumbling over and over and over and over, and over again in my Explorer; boxes bouncing, glass breaking, and it doesn't end.
I'm looking at tile floors through a bluish shade passing beneath me down corridor hallways.
We hit doors that open... And I think of you.

I see myself, skinny and sitting on a bed with wheels, wearing a paper night gown.
I want to raise my hand, in protest, or question, I'm not sure.
But half of my scalp, along with the entire right side of my face, slip quickly off and fall to the floor.

[i wake... and i write]

That's all I know to do anymore.
(Wake, and Write).

I've held hands in mine / That made great art from clay
I've listened to deaf friends talk / Whose hands had much to say

If My hands could tell a story, what would it be?
Would they tell of times, good and bad. How would they judge me?

These hands have held a rock wall / Holding on for my life
The same hands that pulled a trigger / To make it through the fight

The Good Book that my Momma / Brought me up to believe
Says it's Not by works / That any man is made free

They've held my Son, and Daughter / High up toward the heavens
They've lifted up, and they've struck out / Some things aint worth a mention

But 'If these hands could tell a story,'
I wonder if you'd still let me ...

Wrap them 'round your waist at night / Hold your face close to mine
Place yours in mine when we walk / And Not judge me By the Way They Talk ...

[Well, there's scars from being cut open,
burns from knuckle to wrist,
a break from a bar fight,
and fingers that calloused just a bit...

From making noise and trying
to sing and write a few songs.
I guess these hands will tell
half the story after all.]

If these hands could tell a story, what would it be?
Would they tell of times, good and bad, Or would they punish me?

this is a Tennessee lullaby
from the front porch, to the wide open sky
lining up bottles, and getting ****** tonight

writing my "Tennessee Lullaby"