The roads laid out like heartfelt rugs
under my skeleton, in days, in nights, in the classy lunch hour.
They've been felt already,
had a head and cheek rubbed against.
Its hard to cope with endless familiarity,
what a rug burn logic.

In the beginning of it all
thoughts of cleanliness and being tall
for adventure, comfort has it been
leashed, and feeding alive and scene.
Lovely as it ever was,
thoughts of lines and warm buttery hugs.
But, at the linear edge
projection extends a skinny hand
mother, father, and like minds of friends that linger
stand behind each delicate finger,
and maps are drawn,
but until the dawn
of too late and too little
you shall never lay eyes on the maps they whittle.

There is a way up North,
like no other,
where to the South
is like nothing of thought.

The breath of a mother-nature
heaves an infinite cloudy sigh
that puts mean structures
to rest with dogs.

For, it's only on this equipotential surface,
that one can see forever far,
and endless abyss.

The southern star, she makes light of this;
things we all don't see,
otherwise

What dreams I have had of you tonight, my dear
to keep you alive and well in my head,
and are you alive and well in the world?
Out west somewhere, here and there,
on a farm, working for food,
and is the food working for you?

Gotta get out to Colorado one of these days,
climb a tree on the top of some mountain
and gaze out at the features and structures,
all far arden-like.
Are you tied down tonight?
By the perfectly designed sidewalks, and efficient chimney pipes,
tied down by:
cute suburban life, and duplicate blueprints,
tied down by:
pancake shacks, and sporting goods stores
tied down by:
someones misused, overly abused, grimy ****** string?
O’ Colorado where are you tonight,
and what dreams I have had of you in her absence.

Colorado,
where the rivers run far and wide
and the mountains are all on your side.
Colorado,
where I lay my land to dry,
and hold out my hands and cautiously cry.
Colorado,
where all humanity comes to drink.
Colorado,
where we gathered in the hills
not to find wealth, purpose, or the answer.
Colorado,
where riches take a different form,
and souls are free to mourn.
Colorado,
a quite, peace-driven, place… where I long to be.



In the calmness of the current,
in the atmosphere of river life,
in the drowning of the soul and mind,
in cool mountain breath,
in the welcoming brook - not fearing death
in the mouths of fish and under soft mossy stones
in the presence of inclining slopes, and the breaking of bones,
in soft pale earth with the dirt and the clay,
in the tall *** woods where the deer like to play,
and all the rest I forgot to say.

Gotta buy me a boat and get out west one of these days.
Get out on the river,
and just drown my soul for awhile,
live raw for awhile,
beans and rice it for awhile,
get down and see her for awhile.

River as my friend,
a cold and calculated trend.
Every turn: precise
Every depth: nice
I’m on the river now,
and the river is her.

Your mink fur coat flowed majesty as we exited.
I stuck out my crucifix hand out to call a cab
and again the chill of your fashion
licked my admirable high blood pressure away in the dreamy night

I miss those nights, at the Beef-A-Roo
handling quiet food, soft and chew
in where the warmness of the world is
channeled by a single dish, of well interpreted meat
and the saddest sight to be seen
was the emptiness of our plates

people chattered around as we:
The experienced veterans feasted on the fastest food
every bite was a kiss, that you forgot to send my way
but, “that is fine” I say in my cheeseburger whispers
greasy and calm

And, eventually, our empty troughs were all that remained
and I looked fondly against your plump mustard face
“Lets leave” I say “and find a more romantic meal
one where I am the chef, and the first and last meals
are forever the finest love in the land
take my hand!
and play the most important roll in my love sandwich
tonight and forever…

Your mink fur coat flowed majesty as we stepped out
I reached out a cleaned hand to call a cab
and again the chill of your fashion
licked my admirable high blood pressure into the night.
Alone I sat in the cab, tight… against the leather

Heaven, must be one rad fast food joint

Silence and cloudy corn fields
dragging thoughts and ways of life
up the stairs, and who cares?
find out who the real ones are,
who the real ones are.

The ones that cry beer in the night,
whip up emotional whirlwinds
in the grainy desert under
cornered countrymen,
and well off grandsons.

The ones that shrug, ride the bus all day,
eat hearty meals with harsh breathing,
joke about sexism, racism, and religion
all in one instance.

The ones who show courage in the face of *******,
read the writing on sidewalks, bathroom stalls,
lipstick mirrors, between the lines
and make a big deal about it.

The ones who take pictures of the prettiest of sights,
and feed the over growing industry,
of hard feelings,
and ******* parents.

The ones that you can see the land with,
climb on the rocks,
breath heavy on the trees,
watch pebbles tumble down the hill,
and take picture, sweet soothing pictures.

The ***** is long and long and longer than all things long
we’re all dragging our thoughts up the spiral stairs
winding, swift, and lift
concentrate now,
you might miss all that makes those stairs
all that makes those stairs:



The continuous clanking nagging
gnawing of bone two-by-fours,
every step a painful pushing process

Projected eco-systems on every level

There are scores of characters seen
from the third story window.
They litter the walks:
step after invisible step, past imperfections in the damp cement.
I wish I had their consent,
to interrupt their set,
to interject:
curiously, coolly, calmly,
to tear every costume to shreds,
to mend the script that's been
written on every bathroom wall,
every dorm room hall,
and in monopolized letters to all.

It wages on and on
like some cranking machine overseen by fashionable businessmen
and their thirsty paper money hearts.
But, there are times
when the walks are vacant and lonely
and the set is silent,
no acting for an hour or two.
They're getting their makeup done,
practicing their lines,
and warming their jaw muscles
for the next play of the day.

There are scores of characters seen
from the third story window.
Littering the walks,
and putting on plays.

All for my afternoon rest.

To come
and go at the same time:
it’s clockwork kid
you’ll find
beneath the toys and tricks
of mankind
blind

Arguing stars will tell you, true and through
with distant lights of bright:
fantasies fair and crawl,
but separation, beware it all.
Invisible, true, and bearing are
wild dogs and their painful selling
of words in the night of unoccupied dwelling.
Shaggy back door deals under
blistering moons at
the steady hour of billboard death,
easy day grind
loop after loop, it goes in
the conveyor belt spin
and chairs within.

Of the greatest spinning,
at dawns formable bowtie hour
in materials soft and sour
comes the velocity of understanding
among vapor rebellions-
scrimmaging clouds, a solemn weap within, inside
wanting to hide from gravity stricken rain
take cover in the trees,
take cover in the leaves.
A roof over your water boarded head,
and witness all electric feelings vanish from
clay stricken pale skin.
the ones that offer no sense
and hence, the adventure
it is not the same.
as beams forged from mosquito
hammers and nails:
the construct, sweaty prison arisen
to catch the artful tears
of all the games above.

I've seen the world
give thought and joy
to the most demoralizing
objects.

The local ***** house burned to the ground today
some insurance dispute I’m sure
the people were sad

In it’s place, the Golden Corral across the street
knew business like never before

A new ***** house was never build

What price do we pay in the end?
for feeling love in our bones
but only hinting at it to another
like a shadow
trying to converse with its owner.
One can only shiver out loud
with the cold iron machinery of the inevitable
bundle up, carry on
and silently turn a cold shoulder to the world

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”

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.

In a line
you'll wait, I swear
Infinitely small, the objects around
and the ideas with sounds

everywhere around
the world in a cylinder
all totally endless and such
I reckon it's so
with hands to the floors

There's a world on that surface
bigger in a small way that makes sense
particle hills and,
puddle oceans
where you can tire and drown

Wait and see
that line you're in
it's infinite
and endless

Took a hike in a park today.
Charles Lupo at my side - camera in hand
watching, waiting, and wondering
as we climbed those cute dunes of sand and sea grass.

There we plopped our ***** down, at the top,
Charles Lupo - busy documenting beauty.
Me, reading the same,
all bewildered and stubborn-like.

At our backs: industrial and residential devils,
all doggy eyed and spoiling words, disrupting our documents.
Setting fire and hell to our paper,
one by one.
Feeding the fire of big smokey green,
across the drenched, softly-splintered sky,
and in every peripheral of its inhabitants the notion:
Fly.

Before us, the crisp clear apple light
all egg yolk orange and such.
What a happiness elixir my mind has swallowed
on the sand banks next to my documenting companion.

Devils in our hearts,
minds like America’s harsh cornerstone turning,
and the park, only an image.
We pack our things and head up or down shore.

Return is certain.

Here I lay again, for drawn curtains
and restless sleep against the smooth afternoon overcast.
Gloss and film from smoke injected eyes:
a hazy description of counting sheep
O’ what a restless sleep I have found
on an ocean of sheets tonight,
where thoughts come one at a time
filtered by starry nights slow burning tail pipe cigar.
Another ****, would open sheep filled fences
and I have surely imagined wolves
in my prairies tonight: products of the night machine

But, how does this unbelievable tossing and turning of
island factory gears knock ones course a few degrees short?
Had we been taught to sail correctly
through the crunching and clanking of the industrialized night
we might have noticed smoke in our sails,
from the moon we suspected it hails
and shines a curious ray,
that signals for workers to pack their weary souls
“It’s time to go home” they say
“and forever we shall work another day”.
And it is there, among the chaos of relocation
that my eyes become anchors
that lock me into a comfortable flotation
and as distracting clouds roll past
I come to an endless sleep

It's the strangest thing, you know,
staring in the foyer room of walmart,
a world between worlds,
staring at the the missing persons billboard
in a little awe
in a little confusion
those that got mixed up in the wrong ****
in the wrong trip
with the wrong people
in the wrong house
on the edge
might be forgotten
by all
except their family
death at their door
mocking them
what a life in a way
but not really
too much raw
and short term - low pay out - investment
fear, death, and silence
then the most disturbing noise of all
many pass right by
in fact all pass by
heading in to what
to where?
to life,
no
that automatic door leads staight to hell
too hell
and back
to nowhere and back
all images, small sufferings hiding behind cheapness
in and out without a care
and this billboard
the final nail in the cross
no blood
too extreme and real for blood
just one, and one more
that grabs at it
soft tears coming through
eyes
eyes that care and cuddle
for the good times to exist again
poor gal
im not quite there yet
so I go inside
hoping to gain some perspective
knowing that I never will
until I see a face
one that is know
on that board
maybe then
maybe then

I was told by my friend Nick Fu that
an un-tuned piano can never make music,
despite the intentions of the player.
And now the old upright from my childhood
sits by the mouth of the staircase,
with cobweb skin, and a sore throat.
Sometimes I think about trotting downstairs
and playing it.
opening up the top and letting the sun shine
on the beautiful machinery.
Mostly those feelings come at night when all is asleep
and the sun is gone.
Sometimes I get up and go downstairs, inches from your face,
hovering my fingers back and forth like dream.
I’m sure its old bones wouldn't mind the workout though.
Maybe I’ve neglected you. Made you starve. Made you wide eyed.
Made you hate me for not echoing you through the chambers
of everyone's tiny dusty heart.
Sometimes I sit backwards on your bench, trying to see what you see
but I know you can only see when you are being played.
and one day you thought I was back, but it was just the kids next door,
punching your keys and pulling at your ivory.
To everyone,
you were ugly.
Maybe even me.
I haven't thought of you in so long.
The way we met met fingers through life, and works of music,
and heart
in the past, Surely extends to now,
I’ve done it
like an old romance movie: “you once found me beautiful”

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

In the end of it all
flowers, stone, and deaths call
ravaging relatives: attentive for the will
of the will… In complete awe
still
and placed shall remain
nor kingdom of glory or tortured flame
for only reflection exists in the perishing hour
where cloaked friends, and tea time sour.
And there shall en root thoughts to show
how it was, for lines of life to grow
mirror, figments and snippets of all that pass
lag judgment on all spent on green equivalency last.

Where there are fields of corn and wheat
and where the river whistles down the spine of the land,
loneliness waits, frigid and limp,
hovering with harmony as he parts the sea of grass.
He nervously grips the pole of an umbrella,
dodging the sun rays,
and shuffling through the postcards in his pockets.

He’s a quite spector.

On board with an unlikely train
of foul, bitter, and loss.
lumped together with
the unpleasant, unfavorable, and alike.
And there he travels,
sipping at tea, and eyeing biscuits.
waiting to fill another field.

Loneliness, who or what is like you?
What goals can you obtain for us?
Why must you travel?
Where is your heart?
Is it there?
Is it beating?
Can you condition mine?

Where there are fields,
just beyond my back door,
cling like a scarecrow no more.
Come inside and get warm,
let’s talk,
but eventually, Loneliness,
I know you must leave.

So much,
we owe friend
to the strangers
before us.
If not for them
the who?

The view from the fourth story gave light to all the motives of the people below:
walking and glancing, pursuing each and every step.
Words exchange through the air
carried by the whistling of the wind and howling of the lingering snow.

In eyes of golden seeming fortune,
where waterfalls fall awkward rain-like
with sharp rocks and cemented over arms,
engulfed:
windows of the soul,
let the light and rain inside,
let the dark and insane inside.
Shut the back door and looked for wells of water, and silver
in the mouths of busy streets and monopolized peninsulas.
And just left, still fresh and new,
spending money on fast food and cigarettes,
not conscious, not sane, no eyes of gold,
no eye’s of gold.
Steep four cylinder hills, ****** brakes, and surprising ditch deer,
where and wild with delicate sea grass
and endless pie in the sky.
It is I who is bewildered with water beads running down the brain,
and a great audience before,
there to watch the play that's Americas greatest  invention
the end in end, hand in hand
with no remarkable story told,
and no eyes of gold.

What dimension, what box, what cool selling
shall I give my paper to tonight?
Cracked and used sidewalks pounded
with decomposing leaves and previous washings.
The weight of cars in the parking lot must
make the road, weep and seep out of control,
such a task, such a career: the most tattooed profession
in all the flat farm land and always occupied.

I trouble you once more, my sad gravelly friend.
Lifting the latch, a plump foot on your head,
stale steps to the front door,
thanks for the ride.

There is a way out east,
like no other,
where the trees curl up with a cloudy blanket
over the, endless waterfall of tar and gravel,
and parallel lines clearly converge
but, where is so unclear.

We don’t eat people on the road, Oh friend of
restless career searching and creating,
rather, the space between what is right and wrong
is traveled.
Traveled with cars
Traveled with blistery sun feet
Traveled with lonely wait hearts, and dreary friends
that change, warp, and fuel some new premise
Traveled with testing motor bikes, and soft tires
Traveled by bridges, and communist toll gates
Traveled by homeless men who live, breath, and eat in boxes all day,
and never see the second light.

It’s not clockwork.
we’ve taped over ever turning menace, and stopped all the
discriminating gears from turning in the night
where hopeless humans rust away in the clanking of all hours.
Stop,
and perk your ears friends, if it is the turning you wish
listen to the movement of the earth,
and the heartbeat of the trees,
extract wisdom from the hills we like to blast through,
and certainly climb on the rocks as you do.
Listen to the contact of beer mugs
while you drink in all the stories of travelers
your friends.
Listen to the droned out motors of the many happenings of the highway
and know you are not alone.

But, to be alone,
oh, to be alone:
it’s a gift in a way.
But, eventually, all people need an activity close to that
of eating one another,
where we can dine with droogs, and experienced veterans,
kiss soft-toothed girls in the light of a hometown moon,
and pray for glass-faced news.
This huge, supersized, magnetized, kind-loving world
keeps turning:
by sphere, by map, by heart
I swear to you, travel the distance between
all things right and wrong.

The beach;
its job is to hold the sand
as it waits
the water, softly licks at its
grainy boots.

It wishes not to be
transparent.

There is a stillness hanging in the room
whaling from the memory of the events this morning
work,
moving through a field on the tailgate of a truck
work and work on the mind
tall green grass swaying with the wind
and bambi asleep and fragile
curled in a ball, unaware
sure that mother is near
weak in temporary withdraw
I like to think she's dreaming a little in there
of a world where she doesn't have to watch her back
one where she can grow old
maybe even one where she can step in the same place twice.
But instead she meets the belly of my truck
because of her sleep and camouflage
toss and turn
metal on bone, spots and rust stained fur
in the front and out the back,
run over, run through, and thought dead as she brushed past
my dangling feet
I thought she would be nearly dead, and I was scared as hell
almost jumped.
But she's tougher than she looks
and only allows herself to whinny
so loud, like a fog horn
it was the kind of sound that creeps inside of you and dies
is like a tape recorder on a bad loop over and over
even after it's gone and done
you can close your eye's and see the sound waves on the backs of your eyelids
she grows farther away and she moves to the edge of the tall grass
mother's gone
the truck rolls on and so do I
with work and work on the mind

Beware the ones with that unbreakable faith
you'll know the bunch
they've got it dripping from their mouths
like a paralyzing case of rabies
and they'll look at you with those black and white raccoon eyes
eager for a trial of persuasion
so they can shoot it down
like a pearl harbor plane fighter.
know,
to posses this wisdom
is to become a hated minority of the times
and those that carry the faith like fire will seek to save you
but their warmness and friendship will be like loving a scarecrow
eventually they will push you to do something radical
and all will stand in awe
like statues as you burn their sacred icons in a heavenly fire.
but it's not enough
no
it will never be enough
and soon you will fade into the background of history
like a photo in sunlight on the dash of a car.
ideals will lose their meaning
change will become a myth that scales with technology
culture will die
romance will become a foolish art
and the faithless will be forced to heave a heavy smile
years will pass like this
and you will almost die of boredom
but one day when your just about to kick it forever
some kid will print your face on a magazine or newspaper
and zing you are a revolutionary
and the faithful come running

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

I think about the town I was raised in
I don’t have far to travel
I never left
And the other day someone asked me

                                        “Where would you go if you could go anywhere,
                                                              didn’t have to worry about money?”

“Well,
I’d go down to the party store
grab a twelver,
some chaw,
a pack of darts (menthol),
some Canadian whiskey,
and two slices of pizza.
Then I’d go back home and use them all up
until next time.”

I think about my town and
smile at the monuments
I’ve created.
Although they are not grand pieces of art
that hang in a museum, or gallery
they are mine
and I keep them
perhaps too close
they smother me
and I think about leaving them
like leaving a lover in the night,
always.
Even though it is a prison
it is my prison
and if I did leave,
left the door open
and a dart burning on the porch railing
only new prisons await
no matter where
how far
how long.
And after a life of prisons,
You have to rest in one,
just one.

So, alas
Here I am in my final prison
smoking and chawing,
drinking and writing.

Cheers from prison

Your pal,

Matthew Lee MacDonald

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 roof will not hold.
I swear it to be the doing of mold.
In the cellar, in the hall
in my spoken words to all.

There's a soft wind
that blows through
when all is well and able
and after I've put this horse to its stable
for the endless pin-hole night

It carries us all through the pin ******
in the curtain
where all gallops, giant and free
past the stumps and grubs
where I had sat upon and ate my old soul
chewing every instance
with every intention of not stopping

I was the river,
and the river was her.

The world shouts pretty loud, aye?
so loud
and no megaphone
no microphone
always there
never gone
running your life
your life
in a way that never seems to satisfy
so
I say to you
do it like Jackson Brown:

Thats a big 10-4
from your back door
just put that hammer down
this young man feels
those hating wheels
that keep turning round
to take me down to shaky town
all the way down to shaky town

You are the way
the only way
music?
More like angelic charming
keep it up

Alone.
Felt and pondered upon
through heavy days, with careful songs
and simple tales of the wild.

To take it all,
is to stay the same
a perfect shame
for just loneliness.

But to find the path
that divides the trees from the scrapers of sky
is to transcend, and eat humble pie,
for the world feasts together.

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.

Charm
It's almost everything
It can let you leave alone
if neglected
if on the mend
Charm: the great divider
the great conqueror
the suspect of interest
without it there is no
dazzle
no sweetness
no progress
almost no love
Charm
the missing peice of gold in the chest
the missing item in pandora's box
Charm
it was wounded long ago
but it's not gone one only needs to
turn on the light.

Made in America it says
Underneath my wool cap: Made in America
I’m wearing in on top of my head, leaks into all the involuntary parts
And forms a nest egg
Made in America plenty to go around, on the street and intersections
Elects to find a nest egg
Cradled by its loyal subjects
Made in America, on boats now to find other homes
Fit for travel now
Waiting to interject other nest eggs like a spider in a web
Swaying with the waves, nobody in the ocean, fish can’t understand
Made in America, like a grand BOOM outside your door
Ruined another wedding
Collapsed another home
Made in America runs your car, gets you to work, and picks up your kids
Made in America, lifted up my hat and found another bomb
Made in America, proud to be buried with the guns again
Sometimes I say it differently

There is a corner in my apartment where all the beer cans go
where I go when I'm through
with the day
out and about
an empty place for all the empty cans
and words I've placed in them
next to a window outside the bathroom
and I walk to the fridge every now and then
and notice them there for just a moment
just a moment
all it takes

The world will see itself from a third party view when I am done
It pays for this vision in quarters, nickels, and dimes
Looking everyday for slots in the earth to finger it's coins into
It gets old, she gets old, she gets tired, paying for piece of mind all the time
Watching farms fly and mushroom clouds of people continually miss them over
And over
Again
Always melting all our faces away and keeping our hands rough
She gets tired of the difference, the chase, the neutrality, the sides to take
It’s seeing a vision with no context
Yes you see everything inside out
Don’t talk to anyone
Yes your right and everyone is wrong
She sees me in the bathroom at night staring at the mirror
Staring at myself from a third party view
I pay for it with beliefs, fairness, equality, color, driving my car
Every world is one that will not look past itself
Or through itself
We are our own planets
Pretending to be jumbled together in the galaxy
But we’re all alone
Looking at ourselves from third party views

Pour another drink
Seas of cans
An endless reminder
Coming in from the outside world
That you still can drown
On your own
Away
And silent, waiting for a drought
You will die
And retirement is the goal before the end
A preliminary before dying
Doing things that should have been done
When younger
And more experienced
So let’s die together
Can to mouth
A good action
A well spent piece of time
Ill sum them all up
And write a
Book
One day

Those guys
want the same thing
fame
without work
recognition
without study
here we go again
buckle up

Eyes almost closed,
chewing mint gum
and sipping hot coffee
the road right before me
taking me nowhere
I have what it takes to steer it off the exit ramp
come get me god
I'm tired and going nowhere
let's talk
and stay up more tonight

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

Certainty lies awake at night inside a lady
second guessing the choices already made
and the choices to come
it wears so many living masks
and even in the sunshine and happiness times
and all the work that's been done
is done with no thought
answers negating answers
direction for directions sake
living for certainties place