Let life be the stream it want to be
flowing in zero miles a hour
taking a spontaneous ride
to where the soul prefers to rest

Let life fly where it want to soar
upbraided, defenselessly free
up in the dense clouded skies
with no reform, unrolled, cleansed

Let life be the summit of itself
filled with love and laughter
at the expense of unspent darkness
unfrozen in the heap of a rumble

Pocket the riff of the strum
hide in the hum,by the cliff
smile at the wall countdown

There is a hole in your soul
at the crossroads of the ends
the confusion within shadows

Bathe inside the current of dreams
pull painfree from the dainty mount
there is nothing that is left to lose

I'll take you to the fearless grounds
wipe the teardrop vile grounding tears
pause the episode of unstoppable rain

I see your hidden gaze in unclear mirrors
In the inbetween of the yesterday lines
Mincing matters on edges of destiny

Pocket the riff of the strum
and stand up unafraid to lead,  
Let the blues melt away all highways

Allow me to
c o l l  e  c   t.
along tunneled ceilings^ and
unused bones.
They tell me that fire
is hot**
and lakes freeze [over in winter
but I can feel
china doll shar"ds underlying
skins. (Some mornings, when I wake up too early, they've protruded a bit so that they catch against my bedsheets and ensnare us. I grab a hammer from under the bed, pound out silt-size rubies and tangles of flesh)


(Oh, mother, mother, take me in, take me in)

the clouds, wisps
like spiderwebs,
hang delicately above
the sun's tangerine goodbye.

Drops of waters dripping down the drain,
leaky faucet keeps ringing in my brain.
Moldy walls, and moldy halls, a mirror
of the mold festering in my soul.

Laying down on this old, musty couch,
staring at a screen reflecting my expression.
I sip from this can, and sit and wonder,
when this low life lost its luster.

Like a rusty old bicycle missing a wheel,
I just keep riding in circles with no direction,
a plague of apathy uncured by introspection.
The hardest thing is just giving a ****.

The telephone rings and rings and rings,
but I keep on thinking and thinking and thinking,
and drinking and drinking and drinking.
I sit, I think, I wonder, and I drink.

The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The King of the crikets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he way wear my silence
on his little finger.

In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away.
Put on a cricket's clothes.)