The odd thing is that the words never stop.
Doesn't matter what time, nor how sober
I may or may not be.
I'll be at work in the middle of fixing
some poor fools situation he got himself
into by not paying attention to what buttons
he was randomly pushing and then all of
a sudden I can't really follow the rant he's
going on about windows 8 and Fannie Mae
/Freddie Mac and the whole corrupt housing industry.

Instead of paying attention to my customer there
are lines of Rumi or le Marquis de Sade or
(God Almighty) Dr. Gonzo pushing themselves
into my very frayed mind and demanding a voice.

It's at that point I decide that I have a need,
a yearning that I'm not able to fill,
subsequently I go home and drink
and write because it's all I've got keeping
me from going completely insane and
doing something ridiculous like selling
all I own and getting the hell out.

It's times like this that bring it all into
perspective for me I guess,
that moment I stop writing for the reader
and start writing for me.

Sure I'll be explicit, I'll throw my soul
onto a computer and worry about
what people think whenever I wake
up in the plastic morning.

I'm at the point now, where I'd
accept love from anybody,
my ideas (that weren't really mine)
about *** and morality, and the
strange connection between them,
really don't matter anymore.

If you want to touch me, do so.
If you want me to touch you, move my
tired hands to yours.

Amidst tangled lips and intertwined
hips, sweat and soul and heart
it's nothing but union I'm looking for.