Addicted to the transformation of the self In hearing we see that touch is the only hearth To warm one's hands in winter near to the fire A separation of love shows the underlining Of dotted red when the word one sees to be false
Mother - when the night was young and you were old Were you able to see the stars without your glasses? We are the products of products of products of war The shells of the bullet casings and bomb fragments How much transparent blood have we bled so far? Where is the fork in the road that will take us to Shangri la?
Notice that when the woman in the mirror disappears The cleaning men drop their tattered, ***** & cut wears Disaster holds the hands of man's growth & evolution At times I notice the way the wind passes through my sheets The skirts of the women and the thin hair of the old men And they are much like the lavish trees that line my street That hold true form in the pose of nocturnal naivety
And there we are by the carpenter and the pine tree An "A" for effort attitude that barely got you the diploma Hard work for the Hare and easiness for the turtle The last night I worked was like racing through hurtles So in sight all ye' fathers who break the mold of religion Hold true and steady when the wind will start to whip And knowing was never the correct answer & never helped at all "The whips are where the heart is," the fortune teller is told
Where all is sold for the cheapest and weakest dollar I pray to you there has to be more then all this squalor The nightingale awake in the horned' tree cast in moonlight Waits for its dreams so in the morning it can have a song to sing Nod off and nod in where this life began I can't even begin The guitar plays as she types awaiting for Her lapse of sin Here the night is wired and wild with burn marks around the edges Here the boss's hair rings like a hornets nest and everyone clings to their rubble
And pushing forward through the snowflake rings of time Makes me to think that the seasons are only there for our design "Not in the least bit asexual," the lawyer reads to his wife In the morning both their breaths will wreak of red wine Near do well and saying it all as the bathroom stall Leaks out a liquid familiar to the ancient, early neanderthals I have written and I have seen and I have breathed the air of every sea The only thing I now wish to be Is on the lakefront with new eyes and a frame to seize When the speed allows the memorization of misfit tyrants To push the rant to the edge of the hill that lays in dust and ants Then there is the horizon that God creates for all those Western window sills
Tearing the skin from your fingernails and seeing not a drip of blood Sloth like reactions reaching for the best spot in the house The covers torn away as the nightmare in the mind becomes real All that can be heard is the vibrating walls and the wailing squeals Through pebble caked walls and finger padded dawn lit rooms Lay to rest thy' faith for the moon opens your casket & the entrance to your tomb Whorish knave that makes even the gutter grimace in its disdain There the nun contemplates a life she could have lived without restraint
And to connection through the way we need to see each other The push for brotherly love in the face of the dawn of technological revolution And the hastiness of the way that it was and in the day of running mad men What are we to do when the push is far more advantageous then the pull? Where the cliff is in sight and death is more likely to be the safety net? Awareness that all of men's problems exist for man to work at it To prepare themselves for the war of wars where later to see The deaths of their fathers, their mothers, their brothers, their sisters Was not in vain if the reward of the stars is presented to the young Where the rivers ripple with Roman like eloquence of progression
To live for another to fight for another to die for a place that would leave you in the gutter Is the madness that leaves the one's shooting with their heads spinning Tour the way the rules are made and the books are spun with the hands of spiders Their webs are infinite and indestructible for they learn from one's before them Their ways were as intricate and profane in their time For the envelope was sealed and burned and sworn to forget its own name The lightness of the this place throws me off in the way the clouds are grey Letter heads are masted like the wooden ships that produce silver flecks of clay Our nothingness only pushes us in two directions Suicide or production There is a choice that few make with knowing and many without Which one are you? Do you cry for reasons for which you cannot see? Do you believe what you will, or what all the others decree?
Crack of the bed she turns herself over to a man that isn't there I got a place that I know I belong but to where that is is already long gone In type the strawberries shine red always appearing to be ruby ripe And these ghosts of electricity provide neither discomfort or much needed positivity There were things that I needed to know but never took the time to figure out So what I'm left with is a world wide open with whatever I want to find is what it is about The deserts and the canyons, the hills and the oceans all a few of what I wish to see Where I'll be and where I'll live I don't rightly know now So I might just get myself a mule and a satchel and get to selling tea