Knowledge is not like water
It's like the nectar
We learn
and earn
knowledge
We quench our thirst


We behold
the seashells on the beach
the poisonous
fireflies
the silvery fountains
We use microscopes
telescopes
binoculars
However
We can view
a few
things
Lots
of things remain
unseen

We feel
We relax
We imagine
We listen
We disdain

At the end of the day
We're weary.

Steam ghost

  The ghosts of leftover heat cling to the nets on her silk lined legs
  She tries humility, but everything she’s wearing comes from Rags
  And all the men in their cardboarded suits
  Empty hands to her they impute
  But she, on her Yellow Brick way
  Won’t peek a blind she just looks away
  Oh, how tall she stands amongst them all
  Down her red carpet, how they wait for her to fall
  Oh, Baby
  ‘Round her finger she has me
  And she doesn’t even know it
  Why won’t she submit

  Down the howling streets where the light don’t sleep, restless, I try not to fight it
  And a thousand faces they pass me by in the quick blink of an eye
  You can see the night women dangle rabbits feet asking you to pay for their lies
  But no, I’d rather pass them by
  Not loveless love I‘d idle my time
  And it all just makes me realize, so dear
  That my baby’s not here
  Her card, the Queen of hearts
  Howls throughout the night in spades
  Her poker face, carved so deep
  Oh, she slowly abates

  Perched on my stoop, she gets so close, sings beautifully
  But when reaching my hand out, she flys away mysteriously
  And when bringing his name up
  She leaves without an apology
  She’s afraid to begin
  And she’s still thinking of him
  Hiding in a place we’ve all been
  Oh, how can I win?
  Still I hypothesize
  About moving it on
  Just like Louis, oh the Sun King
  But there’s a hole in my wings
  
  Inside of Hell’s Kitchen, she gins for me a glass of ***
  I offered her some, she looked at me and told me “no,” I said “how come?”
  “I don’t drink, and nor should you,” she preaches to me as if she really knows
  Oh, the “wisdom” of a young crow
  She leaves for me a silver heart shaped lock
  With no picture, it’s her reminder, there’s no fee for the finder
  Like the cars that pass the alley
  She’s always there, and always gone
  But these visions of that girl
  They make them all seem so wrong

  Miss Understood has died, they found her all alone by the riverside
  A note crumpled in her hand had read, it said no one could hope to understand
  The sound of the silent night, it just left me feeling kind of crucified and I’m not too sure why
  And, oh, how the way the pavement rolls
  Leaves a dozen cracks in my fragile bones
  And I prayed to God to please have them sewn
  Without her I’m not sure where I’ll go
  Just a brown dirt cowboy on a stone cold road
  Watching them dig graves in the town of Sodam and Gemorra
  And these visions of my baby who’s now long gone
  And these visions of my girl
  It’s always been for her

He asked my advice.
Eighteen years old, and 
no fire in his eyes.
No fight, no spark.
Just fluff, and
nonsensical darkness.

When I was your age,
it was all
sunshine
vaginas, and
*******.
I drank daily
and painted with
blood.
I drank so
much, I ******
myself once a week.
I lived in the
river and ******
beautiful mermaids.
What seems to be
your problem George?

He said he was a ******,
and that he was lazy, and had
no self-esteem.

I said,
why do you always wear
yellow?
maybe, you should do
something with your
life; join a club, or
protest something.
You look like a
giant daffodil.

I'm lazy though,
I don't want to do
anything.

Well, I said,
that could be why
your self-esteem is low.

Try reading, writing,
or taking a walk
in the woods.
It worked for
Frost and Thoreau.
And hey George,
if you don't motivate
yourself, you will
never get laid.
Women take work.

I don't like work,
he said.

How are you going to
support yourself?
Do you want to
live in homeless shelters
or under bridges?
It's no life for
a kid like you George.

You should do something
about that mop of  red
hair you got.
You are white, and you
have an afro.
You look like a chunky
Ronald Mc Donald.
Maybe, try fast food or
a carnival.

I need *****, he says.

George, ***** is great,
but it isn't going to just
show up one magical
night while you live
in your mom's
basement
and play video games.

Forget about women for
now and read some
Bukowski
Hunter
Hamsun,
even Tolstoy.
Listen to some
******* music.
Try the greats,
Mozart
Beethoven
Sublime, and
The Grateful Dead.

I don't like music,
and reading
is boring.

Well, then my advice
is to 
watch more
TV.
I can tell you like
television.

Alright, George,
I have some writing
to do, I will see you
around.

I went back to my
room,
sat down, and
thought,
now, what the hell
did I do with that
hard
boiled egg?

I'm just scribbling in the wind
Babbling to dead trees
I wonder why I even begin
painting portraits no one sees

I'm just spitting into a void
Barely whispering from a well
I wonder if anyone hears my voice
It's becoming hard to tell