I love to be a perfect lad,
And hate the fact of being bad.
I want my heart to bless all,
And my feelings to be tall.
Tall enough to be through my way,
Having a peaceful and memorable stay.
Stay in someone's heart or mind,
As someone humble and kind.
I love to be a perfect lad...

At times it happens that I sleep for days
wherever I am
in an absolute, uninterrupted dream.
Almost no one notices, I myself
Don’t notice it half of the time

At times like that, I’d sit with you
With a quiet blue feeling
I’d be morose or joyful
I’d breathe you
Relaxed
And be afraid when there is a reason to be.


I would tremble with my new found arrhythmia,
Faint over devils,
Over beautiful lads with sunny eyes
Because my body follows my mind
And my mind is patching together a long time now
Strength
For new attacks,
From past attacks.

And it can’t seem to gather more than a cord
A ******* cord, umbilical
From when I was born
Stored in a drawer in the bedroom
Which formerly had paint brushes but
Lately, after my mother makes more mosaics
Than paintings
There is only years’ worth of junk

The other day, I opened it,
And found the cord
In excellent condition
I considered selling it on an auction
so I have more money for a dress
But realized that people don’t normally care for
excellently kept umbilical cords.

Then I decided that I’d tie it around my head
Like a turban
I figured it would bring me back the connection
It would erase my independence
In the past twenty years
That it would make me less alone
in myself.

But what it did was:
It wrapped tighter around my ears
Forcing me to hear my cry
Right after I got out of there
Right after I’d taken my breath

And believe me,
I haven’t cried like that since.

I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.

I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.

I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.

I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.

and, i swear
nobody could have
                      saved her
that day, she was a victim
    to graffiti and
       road signs.

you* are my daisy
by the c h a i n l i n k
fence.