I see your eyes scolding me, but full with the love couples give each other when the hour is late and they only want for sleep.

But in the frequencies of the distant elk calls, you must know, as I will tell you, yours is the only vocal range I relish

Hello morning, I have anticipated you since
I awoke to the small barking dog's tailored speak for food.

I want that Eddie should start preparing her own meals. I know that while I smoke this morning's cigarette, that French Bulldog inside contemplates the fifty dollar bag of high-grade kibble she has pushed me to buy her or instead enjoying her own ****. And all of my wives friends call her a lady.

I want to ride alone in our FJ Cruiser through Yellowstone at dawn, before the predators have gone to bed and the tourists make their queues, I want to beat morning until I have found the wolves, and the sun rise mocks me as I sit four hours in traffic for a cup of coffee as I round the shivering peaks of our Rocky Mountain backyard landscape, and the Tetons swell with last nights snow-fall and the warm autumn air sends plumes of frigid mist above the valley floor and into the skies above Jackson.

And I wish I could stand once more on the balcony of the 777 building and smoke the finest sativas with my friend Turtle while our significant others drink coffees and watch reruns of American Gladiators on a $14,000 couch waiting for us to come back inside.

I wish I could wait on the benches outside baggage claim at San Francisco International Airport smoking inside the white lines, waiting for a girl in a red sports car to pick me up and my friend Guy's absurd faces there to greet me amidst the fog and the out of place palm trees Inevwr expected to see so far North.

And it would be great to hear my grandfather play the ukulele once more while I excitedly fished off of my grandparents dock somewhere in New Jersey where my mother's accent insists she grew up. And my grandfather sings horrifically demeaning songs written in 1924 that offer little respect to women, but much adventure to young men.

I want to play tag with the neighborhood children again in the Summer of 1995. Even though I had come to find all of those playing tag had absconded to a game entitled The 'A' Game, which its only rules were to exclude me from joining. I want to throw scalding hot water once more into Simon Berman's face. Though I do not wish for him to block the water with a basketball and turn my face into Jack Nicholson's Joker.

In Chicago as an eighteen year old, I could count the chalk outlines of bodies as I drove down Fullerton Avenue through the Logan Square neighborhood. I wish I could remember those sounds the boricua made. I wish I could forget the burning runs I received from Lazo's burritos at some time 'o clock in the morning.

I've never been one for finding edible late-night eats. I only want the memory of being able to do so. I do wish that my wife's ex-best friend's boyfriend realizes that he's less the great Emeril of his kitchen and more or less is just an unemployed sous chef with a laundry list of felonies, rather than a wish list of awful entrees. At least in that memory, he's neither a chef nor my wife's ex-friend's boyfriend and instead he's just another hideous orcish ****** ringing the doorbells in some suburb of Seattle, announcing to each and every one of his neighbors that he's obligated to notify the community of his ****** offenses.

I just wish I was there to witness his humiliation, and enjoy the total collapse of ego amidst the long list of those decent people he has surely offended.

Perhaps in some future life I can enjoy watching as jungle rot solves my hatred, disposing of his evilness in small skin ***** of flesh that dot the sidewalk while his disease evolves.

I want more vegan eating options across the food desert we call America. I want to arrive home one evening and find my wife ancy to share a new study that American Journal of Medixibe has found on the benefits of providing non-reciprocated ******* to your partners. And I want to be the first to enjoy the benefits of such a study, that I'm encouraged by her to publish my findings while I attend a prestigious university I once wasn't allowed to attend because of my religious background.

I want to live in a world where violence is no longer a viable solution to resolving the in differences we as humans confuse each other trying to make sense of between ourselves.

I want to visit our local grocery store and find that my favorite $8 a pint vegan ice cream has been marked down to a more reasonable number and that there is still an abundance of flavors left for me to choose from.

I don't wish for much: to not have people ask me to speak louder, full-frontal ****** in made for television movies, and a decent blonde IPA for under $10 in glass bottles. Where in this world can a poet go and still receive the respect that was once given by the royal monarchy of The British Empire.

Now it seems those with the fine knowledge of words are cast into a class with less regard than street-drifters and the homeless.

When did our world lose major respect for the artisans of fine art, or the ability to render an opus?

28-integer news memos and 15-second clips of our cute dog eating its own **** attract more attention than a fine explanation of the human condition or the sultry and sophisticated sounds of my Argentinian friend Anna recite Garcia Lorca in her native Spanish tongue.

I just want to be gone before there is a consequence for finding joy in the human condition, and honesty and integrity are known as the recividism that takes down our nation.

We were once the leaders of a great country. We were compelled by our history to create and indoctrinate one another to achieve, conceive, and amend ourselves to thrive amidst the uncertainty of a mischievous and disgraceful society. Now I just wish to be in bed with my wife when this storm of stupidity comes. I wish I never had to be on the receiving end of a sermon set forth by business leaders instead of political achievers.

I want Eddie to make herself some breakfast so I can lay here in bed a few more moments. I want pancakes and fresh fruit juice for breakfast, a quiet room and a hard-covered notebook. I want to believe a great pen and a good friend could lead me through the exciting and anxiety-writhing times in this life, but I to know too sadly that we live in a world where we don't view it as a weakness as those around us may not be able to read or may not be able to write.

I am the cauldron of summer
Caking onto your throat like a bib
Where your mitts give sores to the throes
In the nation where quarks serve some
Misunderstanding of the bells' curve b
Where two eyes drawn on the wall turn and they fade your ribbons of meat.

Stars whizzing through the bourne.

And let me down easy but do break my heart
Otherwise I'll never know if I should chase after y'all. And the longing comes nightly, the bourbon rings twice, every time I'm out living, y'all stop me from dying. But a man is worth pennies when his work is the dirt, and I've never known forgiveness I've only ever known hurt.

With my skin on the desert, my hands cut from the piste. If a man's responsible for fire, then it must be woman who's made the stream. Everything is an eyesore when plague cuts at your flock, and the shepherd is aching to be rid of his cloth, the end of evil corrupts it, the sheriff he breaks his own laws. They take all that they want, leave you to look up to the dust, you can't sustain the pains of heartache, you words shorter while you talk. So please take it away, the flat and the plains. And only fires concern them, water drowns for them and cries. I don't need no one to listen, no one to soften my eyes. I've been bit by the river, it's taken my breaths. Filled my chest full of water, brought my time to new depths. I saw the valley, and I saw the moors. I saw the valley, just tell me, will she be here tomorrow? I've seen the valley, and I've seen the moors, just please won't you tell me, will she be here tomorrow?

In the mountains of winter, hats hung to the west, on the North Star we've ridden into tomorrow instead. The natives can smell the fear that's starving your dog, that keeps the anger inside you bottled up in you alone.

And the acres subside, the girls lay in their shorts, but I hate disappointment. I hate being let down. I say you have the prettiest blue eyes that I've ever found.

In the valley, if they come, we'll read ourselves into history. Rocks for the eyes, and sticks for the knees. Against all that's wicked, inside something strong. We've all had our guts pulled out to a Keith Richards song. And the drums break, the strummer hums back, the words mix and there's a cacophony of wrong.

Even the hero will be our villain before we've come too far along.

Almost wrote that I'd died,
But I'm no kinda man to lie, just feel like nothing.

Questions batten down our doors, the weather some women bring, suffering and solitude, nothing changes anything, can't tell anymore- from nothing.

She takes and gives me pain inside, drives us all to go. We're just meant to be alone.

Hurt on all my days, can't sleep, just sit, stare, and stay. I've been born but won nothing. There isn't anyone that can make me feel like something. She made me into no one. I feel worse than nothing. Sick, tired, and frozen. My reach keeps me out, away from evils that I keep to chasing.

Sometimes I can't keep from calling,
Won't you come back to my knee,
Some Tuesday in 2003, when we were something on the edge of nothing.

The skies keep my shadows black
Everything Wyoming has, and I love you
Something more than I've ever had. Don't leave me here, I don't want to be anywhere.

Hey Sarah when you go
Please leave on my evening shows
You can take everything you own
I never expected nothing, now I've got nothing.
Not even me, not even you, I'm no one
Speaking to myself and only talking back half the time. Sitting on my own, wishes worth less now, feet sagging into the dirt. I was never promised hurt, but it's something I've grown to need.

Now I'm stuck inside the mountains with the snow sewn to my legs. At least you let me believe you once when you said I'd be free and out from here. Just now there's nothing, my feet are graves to ears of yours that heard the only songs I've never wrote.

Instead of burying us away, I'll just take a stick and handkerchief and take me to a country where men like me can stay. And now I know the stories the both of us have had, and in the days leading up to we, you started with a punchline which ended as a lie. I'm just 6 ft, 160 pounds of nothing you're waiting on me to die.
But Sarah I have not forgot we promised to stay alive, so long as nothing never came back at us, and we could have something for ourselves to call a life.

They don't mean to be the knot versus the rock. But it's horrid how little minute misheard words diminished, between different lines of those similarly sordid patterns, these are the patters people drink towards in order to find their rock n roll.