Here comes the rain
the weatherman said would come,
and arrived just like a train.
No wait at a platform
or delay for a death,
just precipitation
and a whole lot of wet.
Wet windows and wet grasses,
moist tables left from the summers,
plant pots turned bowls,
to catch the water that floods and falls.
Here comes the rain again,
that the weatherman said would come.

His hands belong to the hammer
And the hammer to the spikes.
Every day, ground is harnessed
From San Francisco to Vancouver.
Exhale, and the muscles in his shoulders
Kiss the dirt and the strain.
One foot buried deep, the other to hold him steady,
Smearing life thin between the tracks.

Now, every breath he stuck in the dirt
Can still be felt
Rushing into your skin
Head out the window
Of these cars, tethered to midnight.

This is the only life
Where progress and purpose
Paint themselves in the sutra of our eyes
And it is here that I wish I lived.

For now a soul for sale
If I'm lucky, I'll get enough
For something to drink
For now a soul for sale
Or perhaps something to
Get me high
For now a soul for sale
It truly depends on the person
Looking for one
What they would pay
For now a soul for sale
Or do the bartenders,
Pushers,
One night standers,
Hopeless romantic weekend questions unanswered
Own it?
How can I sell something I no longer own?
Wouldnt I remember doing this?
Or did I lose it?
That seems Like something
I would remember doing too,
Like losing your wallet
Or virginity
So that's out of the question
So for now a soul for sale

Morning's at my door
so I boarded up the windows
to hide in the dark light
and wait for the moon light

morning, I know she's there
I can feel it in the clean air
light a cigarette for an idea you can't protect
regret

for not kissing morning at her awake
as a stranger attend the wake
just watching her gasp for her last breath
as that sunsets

in my mind, thoughts unkind
mountains of mourning
meet in the valleys
and dance in the warm light

a desert of wondering
an ocean of drowning
the calendar has built a wall of insanity
not striving for popularity
a birthday and funeral for everyday
and somehow that's okay

Look into my eyes, what do you see?
Do you see nothing, or do you see me?
Of course you see nothing cause you’re never there,
You can't tell by my voice if I am crying or scared,
And I am sick of this game and I want it to end,
Of all of my life meeting you I’d suspend,
So I wouldn't be able to feel the pain,
Of wanting to drown as I walk in the rain,
Cause you know it's not him it's always been you,
You hate him so much but you hate yourself to,
And you cry for so long that you can't even speak,
And then curse you again for being so weak,
But you will still melt in his arms you will stay,
And then the next morning regret the last day,
And you'll pray you don't see what you already seen,
So you'll hide your thoughts away from what’s already been,
But still you will love him with all of your heart,
Cause hate and love you can't tell apart.

It must be the future where
in a deranged technological vision
I see her first cigarette, smoke
overflowing, eyes of perception peer
toward the doors
appearing as though they are closing.
Even if they were open, she would
not see me. How I feel? Nothing,
nothing, I’d rather not speak.
Like Monica Vitta in L’eclisse
the little caress of the wind
on her gallow-bangs; I hang
too by a tickling strand of her hair.
“I get it now. It used to be called poetry.
They think it holds secrets,
but there’s nothing in it really.”
Yeah, well, there’s nothing in beauty,
either! Or to it. If there is,
I should know it is only there temporarily
and always seen fleeing, tied to a string,
hating to talk, only able to mutter-drone:
“Je ne sais pas. Je ne comprends pas."
"I cannot speak any language.”
What purpose is caution
in the impossible assassination attempt
finding oneself caught in the substance of
the Greek labyrinth, the machine?
“We are happiness and that
is where we are heading.”