Life can sometimes get bitter-
It feels like there's no going back,
But if the knife ain't gonna slit her
She'll still take her coffee black

The wind and rain are battering your window, and all you can think about is your 13 year old self, and how the watermark was up to your neck

Eve's crime was not biting the apple, but accepting the idea that she was to blame for man's fall.

That, in my experience, was inevitable.

I'm feelin' inspired today o' alt'days - when George Bailey'st' richest man int'own, but I can't think of out worth writin' so I wrote this.

I began with verse about Wyeth's Christina
but I couldn't see her face, and I've never been to Maine
though her twisted body pains me

then I flew to the opposite coast
summoned by the memory of a ghost:
my best friend at Bodega Bay, one fine day
forty Augusts gone

he threw a Frisbee to his Airedale
and we ate sprout sandwiches, avoiding the foul
karma from the slaughter of beeves,
hogs, he said

I would like to relive that day,
with its blue dusk, but the clock can't be rewound
and he is not to be found on the great Pacific

kin who barely knew his face
chose his final space--a hot hole on Oklahoma
prairies, not far from his drunken father
and others who never saw him watch
the sun sink gold into the sea

in my head I'll exhume him,
maybe return him to the waves
that reclaim all things

or introduce him to Christina
a continent away--he could help me know her
though her eyes face another world

One often 'as problems sleepin'
In ways which affect ones 'ealth
But 'ow can one deal wit 'out but weepin'
When one 'as a fear of their self