Is it the American
dream or nightmare
I so seldom know

the average American
whatever that means
encounters

thirteen thousand
advertisements
every day:

all saying
outward things
meet inward needs

but a lie repeated
thirteen thousand times
is still a lie

Sweet little one, so young and willing
Fill my rusty nail with another round
Cause I am comfortably numb on my way to Southtown
And I am making a killing on these college towns

The refuge that I find these days
Is bad habits and darker skin
But I've grown too inflexible to come back in
And far too old to change my ways

Play another round of Don and Glenn
Close it out with the man in black
Snap the guitar case, I'm headed back
To where I ain't been in in I don't know when

The White City, she ain't what she used to be
And the wind today is dark and cold
My heart is young, but my eyes are old
Grown old from things unsaid and unseen

Hotel bar and hockey on TV Sweet
little blue-eyed wonder
One more draw, and you'll pull me under
For tonight at least, we'll both feel free

I'm comin' to a place
where I don't know If I'll turn left or head right
Because there's not a soul in sight
And I can't figure out which way to go

So I'll take a drag and take a breath
And drive west through the night and snow
It will be warmer in the West, I know
Cause this town just feels like death

Nineteen hours, drove straight through
The desert is dark and cold as hell
The darkness came along, as well
I light a cigarette and think of you

All alone in a crowd
Too tired to sleep,
too hungry to eat
Silence when I'm speaking out loud

All the days keep falling away.
Ever since you left me that day.
Winter is coming,
and I don't know where I'll stay.
The cold is showing,
I don't know how I'll wake from this
sleep.
I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
I think I'll wander in the morning
'til I can't no more.
Winter is coming,
and I don't know where I'll stay.
The cold is showing,
I don't know how I'll wake from this
sleep.
I thought I saw you on an airplane in the sky today.
Wondering where you're going, why you've gone away.
Winter is coming,
and I don't know where I'll stay.
The cold is showing,
I don't know how I'll wake from this
sleep.

Today I looked in the mirror and realized,
I am not the person I think I am.
I am not the person I've always wanted to be.
I am not the person that I know I seem to be.
Then who am I?
I'm the one who puts my dreams off for tomorrow.
I'm the one who is so busy focusing on yesterdays sorrow.
I'm the friend that wants to be seen as selfless,
when in reality I am selfish.
I'm the friend that wants to be trusted and relied on,
when in reality I'm the one you shouldn't trust at all.
I can barely stand on my own two feet let alone hear about your agony.
Comfort is what I promise to give in your time of need,
in return I gain frustration, disdain, and hate for your somewhat pitiful situations.
In the end,
I have dreams, but lack aspirations.
I have hurts, but lack the will to overcome them.
In the end,
I have no individual identity, but live vicariously through my "friends".

The words flow like my life blood.
They're warm sometimes;
with the chill of cold emotion,
Unfeeling to the utmost tenderness.
If spoken; sounding far too rough
for all that they describe.
If sung; the music seems inadequate
to the grace meant at their heart.
Pure and raw, scratched on some scrap.
In all, attempts to tell of the magnificence
of love; the affect of which I do not even know.
Reaching my hand, too clumsy to apply the pain
and beauty felt;
they stumble
and stop.

I did spend time
throwing my body over couches,
sighing deep from the belly
to sad music and murky martinis.
I was so heavy
I would crash land
at the bottom of long-necked bottles with
red stained lips.

But I have finished that crying now.
I’m standing, whole, in heels, somehow.
Calloused and glittering.
Living.
Thing.
And I’m feeling rather cat-like down here off the wing.

Devils have romanced angels since the beginning of time,
charmed them stark raving naked in organized crime,
and they’ve all gone tumbling down, skirts in the air,
into forests of red fingernails, lost and impaired.
I met some new friends there.

And in this forest of frost
the burning between my legs has returned
stronger than stronger than stronger than
ever.
And it’s become my new master.
In this forest of frost
I am the snow queen.

so
ima wear my black hood now,
ima wear my white boots high
find me some low-flyin angels
to join the dark side.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.