the pretty maiden wearing a blue chambermaid dress
her placard read "don't abandon me here"
which she carries down the dusty street
everyone stops to stare
as she walks slowly by
they all feel so sorry for her
she was left here by Knights of Columbus back in 1967
her prom date kissed her on lips
and she lived all her life for that moment
for the perfect guy
for that perfect kiss
and she has been wandering these backwater towns since
trying recapture that kiss
nobody can seem to love her like he did
and he got in his showboat convertible and drove off
after the parade that day
left her standing here in the middle of main street
with party favors and streamers at her feet
now she is an icon for all the century's between now and then
and America growing out of its childhood
July fourth isn't about family anymore
its about bigger bang for your buck at the mall
here she comes again
her hollow eyes are staring off to the horizon
where she expects to see
her prom date to come back for her some day
he will be her knight in shining Buick
come to sweep her off her weary feet
on theses dusty backwater streets
in an older and sadder America

like a vision of apocalypse
she drags a tree branch along the muddy
lane to the carnivals edge
where those of like mind gather

she believes her offered symbols
of peace will curry favor among the
indigenous or the occasional forlorn tourist
and she will have her safe harbour for the night
everyone deserves a place to at least rest
their head at the end of a futile day
and all here in the laughing happy places of the misbegotten
will attest to that truth of the road
so is it so strange to see her
with that nugget of hope lodged in her eye like a steel jackhammer

she is a complex phrase on the piano keyboard
that without having to speak entices the mind into the notions
of her tale spun in the scents of her patchouli and
the delicate pattern of her lace dress
her clean ****** limbs are filled with extreme tattoos and scented with fresh ***
she massages herself there
and closes her eyes at the point of contact

she looks at you with a question in her eyes
but she never asks
she is not one to want for what she isnt freely given
so you give her everything you have
along with your hearts strings
hoping to see that smile
that enchanted with its sweet touch

she is a simple turn of words in the worlds master plan
but she is a complexity in your life that
was unseen and unwanted

now she raises her flute
and raises a tune from ages gone past
that stings the hearts soul
with its refrains of pale and drawn lost loves
dying in the cold lands
and the tales of the forlorn waif who waits her days
for the man who went to sea never to return

shes a repeating moment
from the past followed us down from denvers cold
to join us on this beach
only to find me alone
but that means little
because her eyes are like steel jackhammers
ripping into the truths she thinks should be
ignore the reality's of the empty beach

her dreads bounce on her shoulder
as we walk in the pouring rain
and they sparkle
in the towns lights
like magic
like her
shine wherever they go

she carries her rainbows with her
like the warmth of her heart
like the smiles she has for any kind soul
jezebel's rainbows
sparkle thru this crystal ball she has
woven into her dreadlocks
so she can always have her rainbows with her

the beads and baubles
she has woven into her dreads
iv kissed each one tenderly
everything about this beautiful woman
is entrancing to me

and its raining again
but that's alright
with you standing here with me
take my hand
and it don't seem so bad
you look up at me
and manage a soft smile
and suddenly my heart is walking on
rainbows
and the day smells like spring
your smiles always bring out the best in me

its raining again
but that's alright
with you by my side
it feels like there is a bright road ahead of me
feels like there's rainbows to be found
and firefly's to be chased

i'm ready for anything
this world has to dish out
long as shes at my side

love you baby

the hard pavement brittle and broken to one side
the other only a place for the breezes of swift metal
keeping eye to the small pebbles a pace ahead
i venture up the river of dirt and rusted cans
the trapped paper bearing sad tidings of yesterday
and the cast off cloth of some
middle of the night maiden seeking fresh appearance

i glance up to gauge the travels remaining me
but catch only the watching eye
of a shadow neighbour and his questionable dog
its head to one side as it figures the angles
and debates the meanings
i return to the gutters skeletons
rusted cans and bottles
the cast off of passers by
and the sorrowful deposits of a mournful winter wind
a shattered lightbulb
out in the field
what could it have lit in such a foreign place
who could have forsaken its warm glow
in such a strange place

i tread on
but find no signature
of this nameless faceless soul
who once stood
on the edge of this tarmac
and lit the world with a hot and urgent shout
now only trampled dust remains
with the crushed cans
and trapped papers
only a minor sketch
in a world of masterpieces in motion
but while it lasted it was her hand in mine
walking home to that room
just one night in a lifetime of nights
but what a night
what a woman

his heavy face drags his head down her shirt
pleads innocence but the grin on his
face calls him a liar liar pants on fire
she just nods knowingly and unbuttons the next one down
cause she has been through the catalogue of this fools parade
and knows a good catch when she has her hooks in him
he starts flapping his arms like a fish outa water
we all just laugh we all been there
we all been a bird in the air

i make coffee but they are intent on the the sideshow
taking place on the couch
i turn to find the girls choir locked in dire straights
with the ****** circus clowns
they will be singing the blues soon enough
cause we all got a price to pay
when the penny comes to a pound
when the carpet bagger comes to call
and the price you pay equal
to the tears you lay

i sit back and light up the room with my handy dandy
nightwatchman flashlight
but soon realize that there are things here id rather not see
as the girls choir gets down and ***** with the clowns
they would rather have a warm bed now
than the cold promise of better kitchens two car garage tomorrow
and im not one to say they are wrong
iv swallowed enough swords
iv seen enough of the bitter bread
so make some room sweetheart
cause you look like you could use some company down there
in your dark corner of the strange parade...
is that a horse head you have on?

this room gets real wild at a quarter to three
the old man has come down
and is talking up the future to some young honey
who knows better but has an eye on his wallet
we all got a price to pay
he gonna give up his riches
shes gonna give up her dreams
all got a price to pay
when  the carpet bagger comes to call

i shake off the dawn
and stumble out to the street
look back to find the whole circus waving goodbye
they all look so happy and content
even the ones with the bloodstains
but that's the price i gotta pay
looks so pretty from this far down the road
looks so warm and inviting with their smiles and lollipops
the circus clowns and the pregnant girls choir
even she seems friendly
in the heat haze of the long hours away
but something reminds me of all her warts
all her filthy fingers grabbing at the shirt-tail
he eyes pleading a different case before the high court
of her own self doubts

when the carpet bagger comes to call
he opens his bag of tricks
and shows you a world of wonder
all glitter and lights
but it isnt till the bill is due
that you remember we all got a price to pay
we all are fish out of water

a desperado of stolen kisses
she plots her next theft with a loving care
she desires the hope
she hungers for the intimacy missing in her life
the feeling of the strong man in her arms
she walks past me with a furtive glance
but the road has spun me down
and i smile for her but leave the fable unsung

a desperado of stolen moments
he lay with the photographs and sketches
dreams captured by the dreamer
incantations of a lesser god are the discipline of his studys
but his passion lay in the slow motion studies
of life around him
a woman brushing a wisp of her hair behind one ear
slowed to a symphony of delicate beauty
a child's balloon in the crisp spaces between
the child's hand and the blue sky
slowed to a broken field of glass under the dust of years
they are all films played out in miniature on the minds eye
they are all photographs and sketches
dreams captured by the dreamer's dream

a desperado of the greensward in the dark of night
on mid-summers eve
steal away to the center of this quiet place
and hear the worlds silent spinning over a field of star
the world a bauble tied to a cosmic string
feel the warm grass beneath you
and its green fresh cut scent fills you with romance for the moment
there is something magical in this place
even if its just in the memory

the hunched figurine
the tablet of her arm
has written there the church of her desires
each vein has a scar
blackened by collapse
and my lips seek them
and with such tender kisses
i do worship her and her devotions
the tool box comes out
and she delves into the greasy depth
withdrawing a single
straight narrow viper
with the poisons loaded
it stares at me
she licks her wet lip
and invests in me
the dream
i wait the bitter watch of night
with her false sleeping touching my shoulder
and jarring her back from the soft place
she runs her hand up my cold chest to lips
my kisses so tender of her church
trackmarks on my heart
after the bitter
is heaven

your bold words ring hollow
your intent was true
but the years have gathered on your limbs
struggle to breath
struggle to pretend that enduring this
will bring some measure of peace
will bring some answer to the long years
bargain with the devil
for a longer day but she holds all the cards
and keeps banking records of all your hearts
humble ideals ready to cash in on your weaker moments

the bare bulb dusty room
the appalling barrenness of its leathery skin
and the scent spins in my head like an illness
screaming its foul intentions
but i am drawn in
its soft seductive voice
after the bitter
after the thirst
it pours itself into my arms
and unbuttons its jeans
the unspoken is that its soft and warm
and after the bitter
after the thirst
it seems like a place i could be
ugly place i willingly wander

a feast of images
so many colors
and interesting things
pretty pictures
listen to the small screaming sounds as she consumes them
see the seeping flow become a
puddle of creeping figures
they make their way cross the room
to  her footstep
they shadow her moves
each one has a hand to the pulse of feelings
emotion plays to the heart of every play she makes
make no mistake

puddle of creeping figures
each individual one
a shadowy man in a grey overcoat
but as a mass they resemble
a smiling face of a woman familiar to you
familiar enough to get close with a blade
pool of creeping figures
a shallow lake of bleeding images
that makes strange sounds as it moves with
incandescent life
see her eyes glow like bloodworms
but she is what i desire
i french kiss her ideal
she will be heaven to me after the bitter

she folds herself into the chair
and carefully takes her purse apart
its ten thousand pieces form fit into neat piles of
randomness on the kitchen table
she places a picture of her old lover on my forehead
a drawing of a photographic rendering
its open face page stares down at me blankly
and rants slowly in dead languages
of its oblique view of the universe from perspective of a blind beggar
with his  relief at being free of  handbag confines
                        the grieving young widow wearing her wedding dress                                                        
run­s into the vestibule and assaults the coat rack                                                          
tr­ying to find her husbands face hidden in the pockets                                                      
after all the cheating ******* always getting head from every floozie                                           
left traces of himself all over all kinds of women                                                              
if lips could get pregnant he'd have a million children                                                         ­ 
she unwraps a notepad from her covered perch
and scrawls letters to famous dead figures of history as
she lurks in the coffee houses seeking poetic romances
she hangs round women's bathrooms for ***
there are large cracks in her family portrait
and she fills them with silly-putty and bubble gum
the widow is now running thru the wood                                                             ­               
naked as a jaybird                                                          ­                                                              
she carries her wedding dress in a demon infested box                                                                       
and she screams things to alienate them from any ideas of escaping                                            
            ­              she would rather bear their burden than loose them on the world                                                            ­                                   
she is a *******
and i adore her  
                            and everything about her
i would do anything to help and protect her
i am in love with her too
if you knew her you would love her
she is a wonderful person
nobody else can manufacture a entire universe from a homeless bag lunch
build a castle with its knights in shinning armor out of cigarette packs
find something dumpster diving and walk across town to give it to someone
that would give it a good home
remarkable people like her are always close to my heart

her silence had conquered me
she allowed that i should build a tower of sandstone
she allowed that she would grant me the sea and its grandeur
and that the sea should ever beat upon the door like hunger
calling me to take my place in her dark halls
for she had once said that it was natural
that a man should hunger and strive
she allowed that i could have these
things for she was kind in her way
so it was a craftsman's eye she set to
stitch this raggedy man

when at last i stole away in early hours
and paid truth's price in coins of otherworldly realms
she spoke to me with such stern regrets haunting her voice
she said that you must return to your birthright
now you must tear down this tower
and see and speak what lay at its base
so the sea cannot wash away
the world cannot grow gardens over it
you must uproot it and lay it in the sunlight
you must weep as innocence would
as innocence should

she lead me to that place in the gardens grove
and set to clearing the stones
revealing the artwork carved
and the stain embedded
set to revealing the flawed man
set to revealing the nature of his inner gears
for none can be free untill they have found freedom within
and this long hour i sit and pray
that night will end
at long last
at this healers hand

the version of night shifts as each person
unfolds within mind what they see
it mutates as time proceeds
a contagion of the eye
makes her sad face regal with its pure and true
beauty clean line and side cast gnawing fear
makes her soft skin a sandpaper of insecurity's
and her sexuality a landmine filled no mans land
she moves restlessly in her seated position
spreading and folding herself
like a spastic lotus flower
like a wasp confused by butterfly's

the version of night shifts once again
and the two of you stand in the
narrow shadows at the edge of a vast
pitted concrete slab
the air is thick and greasy with tropical heat
she is ****
you cannot help but to reach over and touch
she only watches your hand
thin smile on her thin lips
inside your your separate minds
you each hold separate conversations silently
imagine the dreamlike responses
the version of night strains as she slowly
dresses and you silently walk
side by side into the the darkness
back to the noise room
back to the chair she cried in
back to the floor you feared

the version of night is fluid
like a infected river
it flows thru her veins as she
injects another dose of crying and coughs
breathing heavy
you sit cross legged at her feet
an apostle to the teaching that
beauty is no measure of destiny its only a means
a student of the humanities isolated and afraid
by a spastic lotus flower
a wasp confused by butterfly's

she batters down the defenses
contagion of perceive then process
that becomes reality governs her motive
it mutates as time proceeds
lies repeated become fact because they were spoken
so much they defied truths razor
fact becomes fiction
as truth is distorted in the crucible of
think think think think think
as truth is hammered clean of impuritys
and worked by the hands of the mind
into a better package
a more palatable lie

help me
help her
the night is unsympathetic
as she injects
cough
touch
sweat panting for abundant air
this is a killing cycle

bohemian in appearance
his narrow shoes and frilly jacket
are useless in the driving rain
his careworn expression
gave way to alarm
as the depths of depravity
became the fixation of his
neoclassic clique of mouthpeice's
they repeat word for word
the distorted lens and its bent descriptions
they surely the first to be on camera
moments into his meltdown
his bohemian woman
is lead to the gallows by the
politically correct daughters of the
american revolution
they clip her nails and paint them
patriotic colors
but are rebuffed when they go to shave
the star spangled into her crotch hair
aint no revolution happenin down there sweetcheeks
so she battles to beat the band
and wins one for dready's everywhere
you can dictate alot of things
but honeybunches bedroom ain't one of em
his bohemian style looks faded and grey
in the modern light of day
but given the choices
he beats pre-processed sliced cheese product
by a frilly jackets mile

we sit in quiet reflection
she reads her french romance novel
i do the times crossword
i pause to sneak furtive longing filled stares
my heart nibbling at her earlobes
the nape of her neck in the soft light
her perfume lightly on the air
the sound of her turning the pages
passage of time
as she shifts in her seat
she sips her tea in a dainty way
unaware i marvel at her very presence
the utter beauty of a woman reading
the sensual and lovely way she holds herself and the book
one hand casually playing with a lock of her hair
her moist lips moving as she reads
her form curled into the comfy chair
i love women
they are such beautifully mysterious creatures
they are the center of all wonderful dreams
so full of terrible mysteries
so full of such beautiful light
a woman reading in her comfy chair
is such a beautiful sensual thing

the vacant hand fumbles along
attempts to occupy itself in mindless pursuit
breaking its toys and scattering others to distance
it worries the other hand with hard and sweaty massage
to no avail
the other hand retreats to its own worries
the vacant hand aches
eyes wandering too
they roam the room
wall floor ceiling
as if to find something new upon which to feast
as if to see is to be sated
the eyes heavy with desired sleep
but denied by this body
of restless pieces parts
the *****
think hard over every woman ever known
no matter how slight
its thirsty thought gasps like a man in the desert
for even a taste of sweet water
please just a drop or two
just a taste
the mind gripping its fever pitch self mutilations
stumbles along its random path
its thoughts glued to the passing images in half perceived memory
like a drooling imbecile
half laughing and half taunting the
silly's who occupy the insanity creeping into his soul
the path the mind treads
is well worn
been here before
round and round we go
like a punchdrunk prizefighter lurching
through the dim light
there is no finding way out
round and round we go