There is no tender God
Though I have had my feeble doubts
I know there is no place for me
And heaven is a tasteless alibi
Life is an ongoing list
Of rhetorical questions
About object impermanence

The fine fine
fine
wrinkle of your lips reflected
refracted
in the passing light
sight
of a carside window pane
pain
in the heat of a copper glowing
growing
like fruit after the flower dies
cries
in the narrow cave of your eyes.

I'd like to cut my hair and feel
naked as I was
the day I left my shirt sheltering your back
I do my best to cut my curls to the
quick and cut your fingers
running down my spine
I'll cut the sweet brown sound
of me touching you with Mozart and mad
mad love in my eyes
I'm going to take my knife and free
my face from these ragged
wind-whipped blades I treasured
I can live raw
as I was the night I crushed stars under my
toes dancing on a concrete pilon
I was spinning not falling
into your soft embrace but even then
there was a beauty of a blade in my back pocket
I'd like to cradle you in the weary
cotton shirt I left behind and as I walk away
naked I'll cut you from my mind

I fed love
memories
until it became habit
and habit I fed
memories
until memories came apart
now I feed my own soul
and revel in the thought
that my soul
is not something
any man could keep

gravel under my toes and the ache
or road-burned soles
lilies of the valley are the picture
of any purity
I have ever seen
but I've been a nocturnal blossom
whose weakness
is wanting a pretty reflection
of overwhelming sun
and the truth is mud is a second
skin like lovéd dirt
caked into my own blemished flesh
rough hands made busy
I'm a distraction from my own quiet lips
bare feet in the garden
grass in my hair
I wanted grain because sustenance
always meant something more
than dirt-born ideal
but instead I've planted pretty things and ran
to the center of the road
where I'm making my sunburned stand
as cars rush angrily by
I'm not asking which way home
all I want to know is how long
and how far I have to be
before I can finally build something
only for me

Banjos and vagabond songs
these are your heroes
I don't think you're wrong
but Neil Young doesn't know ****
about the weight of a heart of gold
I wish I could see it all
in that backwards view
of a freight train flying by
and I wouldn't mind
you by my side
like Janis and her romanticized McGee
but I've never been anywhere
longer than a few days
worth mentioning and I'm
covered in spider bites
from the dust and courage
of un-making my bed again
the ache of a blue-collar soul
song never caressed my ear the wrong way
I've got vagabond dreams
but too much of a rebel soul to go
with the flow of whiskey rivers
where flasks don't refill
I meant well but the dog bit back
too bad I still have trouble with
feral friends not ready for saving
cities build you up or down
you're either made
a liar or an idealist
always a cynic either way
you've been thinking
but I've been Janis too long
to think I might have won
I'm starting to believe a heart
of gold needs love
a little tarnished but Neil Young
was wrong
it's the expressions you give
not the mining you did
that remind me
these stale-dust spider bites
don't make a heart any
less gold.