What do you say to a man who wants no part,
who knows a little about somthing
but finds somthing wrong with the initial assumption?

These men can never be kings
because they want too little
ask too little
and pray too little

they know the world of love,
but somthing, again is wrong
to these men love is a garage sale
behold a person with too much ****
and watch them pass it on

These men know
more than all others
that there is always more than love
more than feeling
more than ***
more than some fundamental oneness

they know they exist
and to exist

is more than enough to keep from pulling the trigger

There is some kind of madness in this world
that paralyzes, and makes all the sunsets appear in sad little puddles
divided, and broken down narrow city streets
and it's been a warm and mad summer
full of what is normal, but strange - hardly any bugs
and things are as they are: normal and mad
It's been a summer of talk and talk is normal, but not always mad
not always true or distorted or candy coated
but this summer there is plenty of candy at play
and plenty of truth and good old fashion lies, all normal
and many pray like romans these days
asking for the sweet toffee madness to be delivered
on cool carmel apples in the bugless heat of a summer swell
the summer pulses like a heart watching and dwelling in the heat
overheating, unswollen, and normal baking in the sun like a scarecrow
droned and hollow to the sight, all normal
soon the summer will fade, make a transition without notice
and flop lifelessly on the ground like a fish
all the lucky prayers, and candymen will join hands and rejoice
walking in a circle around the lifeless summer scarecrow fish
with madness in their eyes, all normal, sweaty, and bugless
maybe evil, but evil is normal
maybe better, but better is never defined just right
and all will be glad and normal
for fall is here
and we've written, finally, the book of life

There is no living that is just right
everything is subject to little tragedies
and those that suffer endlessly are subject to millions of these tiny tragedies
everyday
and sure life does go on
but not because you want it to
only because it has to
and the combined effort of a million tragedies and the natural turning of time
is like sandpaper on the soul
slowly mushing your fabric to steamy soup
and those that suffer the least are called successful
the others loners, beggars, hobos, and barflys
god bless their beer drunk souls
they do it better
and they're always ready for death

Sitting in a bar
on a rickety chair
drinking the good stuff
watching men and women on the television
run the track with determination
and sureness.
Even though they run in circles all day
they know where their going
and purpose runs from head to toe
stride to stride,
all somehow figured out.

I take a another swig of the good stuff
and it's gone
and a sense of sadness perches on my shoulder like a raven
"Nevermore, Nevermore"
I say in my head
staring into the foamy unknown of the bottom of the glass.

"Reading your fortune in the bottom?"
calls a voice
I break concentration, who said that?
Was it you  Raven?
"Nevermore, Nevermore"
my head leaves the glass and glances forward
at the bartender and my mind drifts to the movies.

"Something like that, have you ever seen Harry Potter, the third one?"

"Right, yeah"

"The tea leaves in the cup, I keep expecting to see the grim in here"

A laugh and a smile in return
and I do see the grim in the bottom of this glass
and it haunts me
my head and mind move back to the runners on television
hoping for distraction.
but now I'm there to
beating that track to my feet
running much slower
puffing my chest and gasping for air
and they run so much faster,
pass me with ease
and many reach the end of struggle before me
But, I'm finally here
running for a while
seeing the end for at least a little while

finally, for now, no raven on my shoulder gawking:
"Nevermore, Nevermore"
finally,
for a little while,
some direction.

Even when your out on your own,
finally,
and the rawness you've been looking for collapses and
surrounds you washing away all the ties of machinary life
and the normal,
the feeling of emptiness still sneaks around.
The feeling of scared and turning back,
not knowing, uncertainty, and regret.
It's all still there gut checking you at every corner.
If ignored for too long, your guts might spill out onto the sidewalk
and forever there's the stain of cramped, lifeless, and empty.
You will hack a lung, tasting the real salt of the world,
all your grit and courage will suspend forever out of your mouth.
Then you will know darkness and fear of living,
only then will you get so far out, that the path gets overgrown and moldy
and everything exists only for a momentary experience,
a story to tell all your friends and family at christmas.
All of this will happen very slowly, and things will seem good for a long time
and the light will seem to shine just for you.
But, eventually the dark comes for everyone and it is not forgiving.
You will scramble and cling to what light remains
small things: a smile from an old women sitting on a porch,
light mist by the oceanside,
stacks of rocks in the desert heat,
the sight of baby deer following their mothers through endless rows of corn.
But it's never enough
Soon all the light will vanish forever
and you'll roam the earth in search of the light that sifted through your hands.
The glue that once held the peices of you together will soften and slide to floor.
There you'll stand naked and hollow with just your soul, impressionable, and waiting for instructions
clueless.
Not so different as how you were when you were part of everyday average
missing all the nectar from the tree
but seeing plenty drink their fill.
You can't force the light of life inside of you
you can only hang like a sail and happen upon a breeze every so often
and soon, after a while
just being out on the water
will be all you need.

There was a wart-face ******
no bigger than a thumbtack
that sat behind a lemonade stand
outside the mouth of my mothers ******
waiting for me to crawl out
as I did he said
"Welcome to the world, do yourself a favor, crawl back up and die."
I didn't listen to him then
and he doesn't care
there's only one of him
so the message doesn't get around.

The walls around me are covered in lead paint
“just don’t chew on them and you’ll be fine”
that was three weeks ago and I haven’t died yet
but these walls and this paint are making me tougher
I see faces in these walls
the faces of all the tough people I’ve ever met in this world
the ones that have changed because of all the bad they’ve seen
and brought home with them
these faces are changing me
and sometimes I want to tear down the walls and begin shoveling the
splintered wood chips into my mouth
eating all the toughness in the world
and I’d top it all off if a cigarette out on the balcony in the rain
“****, being tough will make you ill”