Layne is cool
Awfully sweet
Yes, a jewel
No more deceit
Even god knows

Radical girl
Under that brain
Divulged a pearl
And curing pain.

I think she's smart
She makes great art.

Can I speak more?
Or am I done?
Oh I feel poor
Layne is fun.

Duh, she's the queen
Under a crown
Dressed so pristine
Envious gown.

I'm not as skinny, and I love my curves.
2. I have less money in my bank account, but it's okay.
3. My tea is better than your's now.
4. I forget what your shoulder smells like.
5. I've had better ***.
6. Our naughty videos make me sad, not turned on.
7. I'm forgetting your family members' names.
8. My hair is darker and my lips are fuller.
9. I don't seek anyone's approval. I am who I am.
10. I've moved twice.
11. I've loved someone other than you.
12. I graduated from college.
13. I'm not afraid of going to your old neighborhood in North Philly.
14. I'm not ashamed of my music aesthetic
15. I love myself..

They can call it what they want
But amidst your pain
You deserved one selfish moment
Call it want you want
But amidst your fury
You blackened the whitest of faces
And they might still make the make-up
But you shook me to the core
Shook me to the bone
Took me to a place of unknown refuge
Took me to a home
We've all left the cradle
But few of us remember the rocking
The serenity sway
We've all been burned
But few of us recognize the flame
Of blue consistency
Memory, always in their favor
When you just need someone
In the present tense
Soak us in tragedy
Leave us with a laugh
I truly hope you've found
Your colored clay
And all your wounds are healed

A family of farmers near there be
That treateth all folk kindily
Who follow by the chapel creed
And gladly lend a hand to those in need
Three brothers are they in truth
No longer in the prime of youth
Though the father is still alive
And longer may he live and thrive

On the corner with his wife there be
A farmer now retired comfortably
Often when he sees folks walk
He stops his car to have a talk
Common sense he has in good measure
And to hear him always is a pleasure

Another farmer too lives off the layne
With his wife, the same again
They have two cottages they rent out
As well as sundry acres round about
Which bring them rent into their hand
And so they live off the fat of the land

A woman lives half way down our layne
Her husband died which was a shame
She must have shed many tears
For he was only sixty-five in years
But she does not live alone
Her daughter lives with her at home
She keeps her house as would a saint
No cracks in walls or flaking paint
Like a wooden ship of old
It faces out on fields that gently fold
Also she has her parents there
In a barn converted with great care

And then we have a bungalow I say
Where the father works on the farm all day
He drives a tractor he calls his own
And they have two boys now fully grown

There is a little cottage at the end
Where the owners like to spend
A day or two to come to stay
For they are vets and work away

Then there is us here as well
But for sure truth to tell
You know me well enough I fear
So I'll not describe myself just here

you said you'd come clean,
but i know it's not easy.

you left behind emptiness--
confusion and hollowness,

as we all shuffle about in gloom,
the gloom of remembering you.

maybe it's stupid, after all, i never knew you,
but i distantly care...i do.

you give me hope--
a way to cope.

i almost feel like
your voice is my home.

i was far too kind,
i was far too blind,
insignificant in your eyes,
and it didn't register at all
in my mind.

you're so pretentious and cold,
you think that you're so deep.
you say that i sold you out,
& that i'm just a brainwashed
sheep.

you're only compassionate
when it's convenient for you,
if anyone knows that, it's me.
just a selfish *****, a low life ****,
with a **** personality,
no integrity, or originality.


you will never be kurt cobain,
or layne staley..., sorry to crush your dreams....
but you're just another clone,
in a flannel jacket,  and ripped jeans...

you rant on and on
about what's right and wrong,
please give me a break,
and no, you're not edgar allen poe...
you're just a ******, with an over inflated ego...
you're so low, and fake.

I am from the outdoors
from Febreeze and smoked salmon
I am from the snow covered hills
and the ice covered lakes
I am from the crowded hockey rink
the cheers and jeers
and the season ticket seats
familiar and worn

I'm from hunting and fishing
from Stacy and Layne
I'm from the military
and bad eyesight
from " 'Merica!", "Let's get DOWN!"
and raps about vicious kitties
I'm from Def Leppard, George Strait
and the Beach Boys

I'm from Hacienda and Chili's
caribou sausage and moose jerky
From the fishing hook my dad
stuck in his finger
The collarbone my brother broke on the ice... twice

This is where I come from
These things are my past
and my present
But the future is in the distance
around the bend
beyond the horizon
And I am eager for it to come

Why do I put myself
In this much pain
I stare at your photo
Like a ****** - insane

It was quite evident as a teenager , drawing Boston's guitar shaped space ship on the back of an English book , playing the opening riff to Smoke on the Water with a broomstick
Hiding in the closet , listening to Kiss's first album , singing in front of the mirror to REO Speedwagon
Bad Company on the eight track in my '63 Ford Falcon , taking a Guess Who album to show and tell in Kindergarten
Reciting every lyric on Three Dog Night albums , Foreigner turned up so loud that the windows would ratttle !
Learning Free songs note by note on the guitar , playing Born to be Wild like I was on a World Tour
My heroes are Page , Scholz , Perry and Geddy Lee ! Soundgarden , Alice in Chains , Mott the Hoople and Queen
Jimi Hendrix bringing his Strat to life , Eddie's blistering fretwork !
Crosby , Stills and Nash , three part Angelic vocal harmonies , Ronnie James Dio wailing like a banshee !
A Gibson through a Marshall , A Fender through a Vox , a Tele through a Peavey , a Rickenbacker through an Orange !
Jim Morrison turning poetry into song , Elton John baring his soul through the piano
Eddie Vedder in a trance on stage , Anne Wilson crying out in pain  , Layne Staley raising the hairs on the back of your neck , the reassuring voices of McCartney and Lennon , every musical note committed to paper by George Harrison
Chris Cornell screaming into the night , the aura of Robert Plant onstage
the sweet guitar work of Eric Clapton , heart wrenching soul of Janis Joplin
The wailing guitar of Robin Trower , the blues power of Rory Gallagher
Siren song of Annie Lennox to the infectious , brilliant lyrics of Tom Petty

Wrote this back in 2013... Wanted to bring it forward to today, August 22,  which would have been Layne Stayley's 50th Birthday.


It was simple at first
I did it on a dare

There's a certain easiness
to difficult dares
when senses are dulled
by alcohol and fame

show me how
that color tastes

It was like
biting into the sun
it burned my tongue
and nothing else
would ever taste the same
or be the same
it calmed the storm
of daddy leaving
it was as if my
new found Catholicism
was a purgatory from where
I could see the bright white
pearly gates of heaven
and feel the chill
of their snow clad bars

colder than
the coldest winter chill

one night in a dream
my father told me
to meet him at the gates
and from that point
I went every night
but he never came
instead he died
and when he died
my dreams died
with him.

bury me softly
in this tomb

I continued to go there
night after night
I desperately wanted
to believe the gates
would lead to heaven
because in hell there's heat
and this place was cold
so cold with no sound
and no light only darkness

I would sit in the cold
for hours, losing all sense
of time, obligations
responsibilities, shivering
and sweating at the foot of
the gates, obsessed with the
furry luster of frozen pearls
the sound of silence and
the subtle shifting of
the weather

holding rare
flowers in bloom

a week, a month
a year would pass
the snow began to slip
in clumps and tumble
to the ground again
and again and again
and then
all hell broke loose
the heat was hot
the gates were gone
and I began to run
but

every path
led me to nowhere

the blue cold went red hot
and then turned black
I tried to leave that place
13 times I left and
13 times returned
there was nowhere else to go
no place to call home
I burned within my sick head

I wanted to peel
the skin from my face

so hot
I was bleeding for you
soaked in sweat
my calloused heart
would not ask for help

serenity
was far away

my hands were bruised
from breaking rocks all day
far from the chill
I couldn't remember
anymore anyway
so desperate
for a glimpse of snow
it all came down
to this

I could not live apart
from that place
and I could not live
within it

so tonight

I will marry the two
the here and the now with
the there and the then

mix the snow with the fire
mix the snow add the fire
mix   snow  with    fire
mix   snow  add    fire

snowfire
      
snowfire
      
snowfire

momma
I am burning
momma I am cold
mother please save me
don't leave me alone
I see you but
you've come too late
can you hold me anyway?
whisper in my ear
I'm so sorry mother
I haven't bathed in 2 weeks
momma come hold me please

I'm down in a hole mother
feeling so low mother

I'm so cold mother
come save me
take me home
mother
I am dying

mommy
I am dead
sit with me
in silence
sit with me
I am dead

mommy I'm scared

black is all I feel
so this must be how it feels
to be free*

mother
I am dead

In Memory of Layne Stayley
born August 22, 1967 died April 5, 2002
Re-Dedicated today on what would have been his 50th Birthday..

I write with a pink Bic now

My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
   cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
   asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
   wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
   stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
   is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
   reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
   “healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
   in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
   holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
   there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
   Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
   that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
   throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
   picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
   selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
   of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
   had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
   views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
   something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
   the only one I ever learned by heart.
Hail Satan.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
   bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
   fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
But,
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
   My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
   guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
   not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
   on that stick and got a plus sign?
Probably not.
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
   better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
   Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.

With a yellow no.2 pencil.

A white porcelain
Porcupine

Sits atop
The stool

Beside a resting
Toilet and silent sink

Drains are clogged
Must be the fog

Airing up
Inside the room

Thick and heavy
Full of cream

Like a hot
French Pastry

Soap melts
Into a fine cappuccino

Skin is soft
Not smooth

Rugged
Tired of the water's touch

Lips separated
Leaking drool

An earlier soft drink
Makes its appearance

Sake makes my soul
Gold and sublime

A snowball I received
To the face

Magical cocktail
Island tragedy

In Paris
Couped up

Stuck in a bathroom
Head bobbing

Up
And Down

Swaying
Side to side

Direction unchosen
Ears sweetened

By a tranquil
Heavenly sound

A song
Heartfelt poem

Layne's voice
Shouting from the void

Guitar strings
Beats of a drum

Native quotas
Unremembered

Just peace
No hate

Possible gain
***** to be given

Snowflakes
Fall upon my brow

Hissing in the heat
Chilling a man-made sea

Fingers tingle
Fabricating a jingle

Eyes swell
Blochted art on the walls

Feet numb
Deciding to stick around

Like a sore gum
Withered with gin

My armor
Solid arms

Continue to fall
Down with my divinity

I am Lucifer
Shining meteor of false hope

Chest heaves
I begin to grieve

Hope for a dawn
Pray to hear a new song

But here he comes
I am bleeding

Shaken by the storm
Overcome

Laughter
And crying

This means
I am dying

But,
Is the time right?

The other day they showed on the news a tweet by President Elect Donald J. Trump. It is a very sad situation when you have an illiterate as your newly appointed leader. It's like I told Layne Marie. It only gets it, when it is and never gets it when in possession. I know what you're thinking. This poet did the same thing when he posted poems on other sites. Yes. Guilty as charged. But, Trump didn't pay Mike Tyson to beat up you. And whenever I recover from those beatings I just might get up the nerve to do something about it. DO NOT TELL ME that this country is so ******* up that anyone running for president shouldn't have to take a literacy test. So we have now a mobster that is ignorant of the rules of grammar, leading the way. This is a very sad day. The 14th will be an even Saturday.

It's not a sweet sunshower
It's just a sour spring blur
I'm sipping on a wilting flower
With a dour devil who concurs
That all this sweating and shaking
Won't help bring home the bacon
And the everlasting shiver is making
My fragile bones crack with the quaking
Tell me what it takes to make this go away
Cause my ducts are dry and I can't cry today
Tell me what to do to make this life seem true
Cause this duck is drowning and the water's not as blue as me
All I have left is prayer, as they burden me with truth or dare
So show me the alchemy
Print me out the recipe
Cause I'm being eclipsed by the rain
Just like Layne

Cheap skinny insecure. tell her who she is.
If she thinks you love her your bound to get a kiss.
Mangled broken ***** girl where has she been.
Promise her freedom and she'll forgive your sin.
Beautiful weak broken nails,
 tired oh so sick
 listen to her heart beat listen to her tales.
Oh so tired and sick
Happy on the outside ***** deep with in.
Staple labels on her fore head, stick em in with pins.
Shes so so stupid and shes so so lame.
Shes been so so good, while in such such pain.

Cheap skinny insecure. Tell me who I am.
Broken down little girl, ******* little lamb.

Cheap skinny insecure locked in my own head.
Halley Layne tired and bored. should have stayed in bed,

The day that I lost you
I lost a piece of me
Like when we lost Layne
It started to rain
Now I sit at your grave and weep
Experiencing phantom pain
Random ocean waves of emotion
Flood over me
Bro we were blood
Forever destined to be
But now here’s your final resting place
Where’s my saving grace?
In my mind
I can barely remember your face
I can’t believe you won the race
To the ******* pearly gates
It was supposed to be me
Who took the early journey
To feel hell’s eternal fury
But I’m still here
A complete ******* disgrace
I’ll always shoulder this heavy weight
Pushing that boulder day to day
That’s my Sisyphean fate.

I can't be your afterthought
I can't be what you cry over later
and not in the moment
I can't be what you can deal with only once all your chores are done
And letters are sent and days are finished
I'm not a chore to be dealt with
I can't be who you pick only when you're with someone really terrible
Or want an escape from your lover
That isn't fair.
I can't be your afterthought.
The thing you never write poems about because you already "know"
How am I not worthy of your words?
Or your thoughts away from me?
How have I never once made into one of your poems?
You write about children you meet, people you see, friends you've talk to less, and haven't spent as many nights crying with about love and Cold Mountain.
And I never made the cut? ******* once?
Only in a poem about Layne Marie that you then deleted because she was in it and you said something ****** about her?
SAYING SOMETHING ****** ABOUT SOMEONE YOU HATE BEATS OUT WRITING SOMETHING NICE (I'M ASSUMING) ABOUT SOMETHING YOU LOVE????
WHAT THE **** IS WRONG WITH YOU YOU CRAZY ***** THAT'S MESSED UP AND NOT HOW TREAT YOUR SUPPOSED BEST FRIENDS AND RUBYS.
AND NOW I'VE SEEN YOU'VE WRITTEN A POEM ABOUT JENNA
STILL BEFORE ME
DA ***.
If I see one more poem about Trevor.
I'll **** something.
******* marry him already and get over it this is getting weird.
I have just unfollowed you.
*******.
Okay not really but I still think all of this ***** and is one of many reasons WE CAN NO LONGER BE FRIENDS.

A Secret Revenge-Anger Poem
By Maggie Johnson