Falling,falling down and down
spinning,spinning round and round
am I dreaming,am I dead?
Am I standing on my head?


Hold me tight to keep me steady
give the word and I'll be ready
just as soon as I can see
where I am supposed to be.

Where's my glass I'll have another
here's to you and to my brother
and another for the road
then I'll head for my abode.

I heard you, Brian Wilson,
your genius creativity,
your schizophrenic synchronicity,
through finely tuned
and balanced cans
way back in 1973.

On the edge of autumn,
I see the sky and trees all
ablaze with color.
I can still smell the
smoldering fires of fierce youth,
when the landscape of my
heart was wild;
a wilderness that wouldn't
be tamed.
But I'm afraid that
old age has quenched my
thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed up knees and
swords made out of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
Just constipation to overcome;
as I listen to the
ticking of the clock.