I'm just a lonely
wanderer;
a vagrant out at sea.
My vagabond spirit
knows home is where
I need to be.

Through the fog,
I can't see you.
I'm as blind as I can be.
You're my lighthouse in the darkness,
and your heart is where I long to be.

I hear the patter of
the rain on the leaves
of the oak tree.
It reminds me of my
daughter's soft footsteps on
the hardwood floor.
She's 3 years old,
and has gorgeous blue eyes like
her mama.
She owns my heart.
The neighbor downstairs
pounds on his ceiling whenever
my daughter walks across the floor.
It scares her.
I went to his door to tell
him to stop pounding,
and he wouldn't answer.
As a poet, I'm a gentle soul,
but honestly, I want to
harvest his kidneys and
fill his ears up with *****.

I want to get
the facts out.
The glass from under
my skin.
The rails from the
timber.
Just because I said
that your *** looks
nice in those jeans,
doesn't mean you
get to treat me like
*** crazed dog.
I gave you a compliment;
nothing more.
You're not an object.
And neither am I,
so don't talk to
me like one.
I'm not every
other guy you've
ever met.
Lift your eyes
a little higher,
that's where I am.

I miss her, and
it's uncomfortable.
I'm not used to
feelings.
In the past, I would
drink when I
felt uncomfortable,
or felt anything, for
that matter.
Now, I identify
the feelings, like
a strange new
species of animal:
"Oh yes, that's sadness.
It's indigenous to
the western plains of
the heart."
Feeling emotions is
strange and scary,
but it beats the
alternative;
feeling nothing,
and dying alone.

Gonzo goes out
with a 45 blast.
He was kicking *** in Aspen,
we knew it wouldn't last.
The rambling, gambling
man of journalism
put Fear and Loathing on
the map,
but in the end,
he couldn't stay.
It's bat country.

Everyday that dawns,
you slip away a little more.
The distant stare,
the apathetic eyes.
Your love is as dead
as the roses in
the trash.
Your heart is an
abyss that I'm
lost in forever.
Belladonna drew me in.
The poison kept me there.

Chess in the
afternoon sun.
Jazz floats over
the silky couch.
Backs ache, while
hearts break.
Bishop takes knight,
and France falls again.

The masks are all
broken under the
cerulean blue skies,
while she eats berries,
and smiles in her
pink polka dot dress.
The pawns are all smug,
and queenie's on the rag.
Italy surrenders, and from
the grave, Charlie Parker
still hammers home
those soft amber notes.
I can smell her heat, and
I think they play
Jazz in hell.