i woke up today, yesterday was what it was
another day of living my life for a buzz
i'm always surprised to see the morning light
when will i ever live my life right

what tomorrow brings is never on my mind
i search and search, then find what i find
eye to eye with the devil isn't a fair fight
when will i ever live my life right

stuck in a pattern that's set to repeat
with demons closing in and feeling the heat
my life ends up another day, another night
when will i ever live my life right

like a building without a facade
a church without a door
I stammer
utter a false prologue
made up in a backyard of days
past
sandbox hopes red skins sweltering
where we never tired
just played
with matchbox cars
and saved all our popsicle sticks
making lanes
in the dirt
until  mama called dinner
and we ate pork chops beaming
those days I cherish
now I
sit on the couch
reminiscing

The first bird (bard?) of the morn
I peeped into the salon.

Are you ready mate? I queried.

His eyes were ashes of night
and I doubted his mood.

I should be, he said
your hair is my livelihood.

Make it short I said
top bottom and the sides
and his scissors was Beethoven
soothingly rising and falling
making the sweetest sound
celebrating martyrdom of my hairs
resignedly falling on the ground.

But too soon it was over
and he held the mirror.

Wouldn't a little shorter be fine?

Nope, he smiled
considering your hairline
further recession would be a disaster.

I paid him buying his logic
and like a symphony
skimmed the air merrily.

When at the peak voltage
streetlights **** the stars
and behind closed doors
rumbling slumbers
down the cries of the nocturne
awakes a world of opened windows.

Home from the last show
eyes colored with screen idols
shadows huddling over supper
talk of the length and worth
the plot intrigues and intricacies
the creator's whims and fantasies
while unbeknownst the night lengthens
tiring the shadows
that excavate the trash bin's bottom
for living through the morrow.

The filaments feel lonelier
as those last windows shut down
starlight wasted
on an enveloped town.

spot of fall
the last pure sun
full on burns your naked skin

the leaves just beginning to singe
to turn to coil up a bit
the wind picks up

from the northern side
as the turn from
green to orange

makes its way down the sun's
traverse
along the trees

unto the corn standing in the field
the
peanut's about to be tilled

all the turnips peas the black eyes
the purple hulls
pulled and put up

in mason jars weeks ago
cotton bolls
erupting virulently

on the long horizon from here to
eternity it seems
the birds visiting

soon it will bring the dove's to the slaughter
with all the life left lying
still

in the field
and the pleasant sounds
of growth recede

into purest  harvest
the wreck of fields
the reek of peanuts death

turned up drying in the fields
make tears and noses sniff
and the harvesters shall shake

the snow from the bush and spread it
around the land the roads
like Jack Frost

in 85 degrees
360 degrees
and it portends

the change from bright long days
to a more reasoned rush on a porch
the end of another year

shorter days less
hurry a still kind of rush

a looking back
and another looking
towards next spring