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Sympathetic empathas saying words,
That are read from a script,
No one knew how to write,
It's early and cars,
Driving to,
Another paid bill,
Or whatever Thomas said,
Expierences fulfilled by fuel,
Maybe they aren't driving,
Or drinking,
might just be,
making babies in the,
Basement,
Or whatever Keats said,
Distantly dancing,
To kindergarteners and,
cancer patients,
Just another Thursday,
With mystic music,
Lofting around,
The empty dance halls,
Falling up,
With Christopher Robbins,
To the stars,
The bus is on time
Or whatever Dylan said.
"Hello
My name is Robin
I'm an alcoholic
I'm a drug addict too
'May cause drowsiness '
I'm coming for you

I used to be sexually addicted
****** from the Motel 6
On Hollywood boulevard

Long nights
One more web site to go

I'm a compulsive gambler
'The game ain't over
until
The cigarette money is gone'

QVC & Christianity
They had my number
The fourth bankruptcy was denied
My parents, they had died
Where does salvation come from
anyway?

Ran a rehab
Functional as a goliath
Never had any excess funds
Ran the fine line between
playing it straight in supermarkets and certifibile madness
The oldest living road show in America

I'm ready to turn my life over
I surrender
I thought I knew it all
My best thinking got me here
I don't know much about anything
I'm ready to learn about everything."
Nonsense hiding in an autobiography,
Starting down dusty roads,
Where you truly found yourself,
Daring the mountains and questioning the cold,
To high rises with coke that guy you didn’t know too well brought,
She was there naked and gleaming,
Maybe she had od’d but ****,
She’s great at acting,
Just ask her mom,
You saw her face before,
In flashes of hot breath playing against,
Folk songs and guitars in a punk bathroom,
You didn’t know the faces then,
But you will,
Trust me,
You will,
Weren’t you there at the great protests,
Arm bands and water riots?
You saw what they saw,
But really,
“it’s poetry, not an autobiography”
Spelling errors speak to those who are deaf,
And you say it like it’s fact,
What else do you got?
You remember staring down a gun,
That didn’t belong to you,
In fact it wasn’t aimed at you,
It was aimed at them and all you could do was shake,
But the shakes don’t change when you,
Wake up the same,
You cant shake you,
You told me that while we layed in the sun,
Pointing out constellations,
I said,
It’s morning,
Why talk?
All I heard was a sigh,
But through the onomatopoeias,
I heard things like,
You cant see the stars but the sun still shines,
Whatever that means,
the rest of the day didn’t matter,
and you traveled again,
where’d you go now?
Maybe your letter will help,
Or maybe the call you sent is the way you,
Tried to send a pick-me-up,
Or maybe it’s just *******,
Either way,
Yea,
Either way,
We’ll answer.
For my father.
The hound dog sings the blues again
Jumping into the probability  continuum
Finding bliss or frustrated suffering
Gotta keep moving
Cutting our losses
Honoring commitment

Of winners and losers
Letting the cards fall where they may
Finding peace where we can
While the hound dog sings the blues again.
It's quiet in Phoenix,
Ain't no cars driving down,
Even the crackheads are tucked in,
It's only midnight,
And birds confused,
Sing far away songs,
The crickets forgot what day it was,
And wont stop a chirpin,
Old texts and dogs barking at tumbleweeds,
But there isn't any wind,
A plane makes more noise than my mind is,
And that's alright,
Air conditioners blast their melody,
While the lone car,
Confused at which street to take,
I say outloud, "I guess none of us really do."
The loneliness is fading,
With streetlamps wondering what's it's job,
Don't worry,
Just keep doing what you're doing,
The porch light dies,
And what's left,
Just them dogs,
And the crickets,
Goodnight Phoenix.
It's there,
When we are ordering ****** food,
And the way you like how I talk to the cashiers,
I can feel it when you pick me up from work,
And you do this dorky little wave,
You have your way,
Which is just that,
Yours,
Whether it's comfortable or just comforting,
I try to read every pause in between your lines,
It's there,
When we dance in your car,
like the idiots we try to only reveal to those closest,
I can feel it when you squeeze my hand,
The refreshing reminder,
That everything is ok,
It's there,
In the moments where we collapse on the bed,
Both dreading that tomorrow means,
The end of tonight,
I can feel it in the silences that exist,
Solely because we are saying more with our souls,
It's there,
in blues music, and starry nights,
That every cliche could make the milky way,
I can feel it,
In the smiles that I thought,
Had never existed,
It's there,
And I can feel it.
She's crying over text messages,
As the pink haired ****** decides it's time,
The dope always wins,
The lady behind me has flowers,
With a note tucked,
It says,
"Dedicated to the little moments".
The former **** with crossed oot S's,
Smiles at a skinny Jew,
We do change,
Most of the time over a ride,
But usually the ride lasts the lifetime,
She's no longer crying,
Trying to be strong like her mama once told her,
When she fell,
The college kid in tucked flannel reads chapter 45,
Of a book that is blank,
The pages scream, "fill me in!"
He checks his wallet, not knowing what else,
To do,
The poet is in the front,
Or the back,
It depends on which way you're going,
He writes this little story,
Tapping a face that reflects his good,
Intentions,
He has to write the opera of souls,
Poured out,
He signs off,
Another Lightrail Tale.
Part of the series
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