Was a respected man
He hardly saw his kids
and constantly worked and worked
Not everything he did was perfect
He could get in line with the rest of us
But when he passed away
People came in droves to his funeral
Family, friends, customers alike
He was the best at what he did around his parts
There was never any debate
And i constantly try to capture
The same effect he had on others
Of course, not to become a copycat
But to repeat his legacy again in another pair of shoes
I want to get this old stadium busy again
I want to start up the old engine
To hear its roar
Giving me pride once again
The pride that never left him.
****, i wish my grandfather was still here.
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
— The End —