Don't worry, I have nothing to say.
I'm throwing up blood anyway.

I'm hungry, lost, broke.  Whatever, happy.

I don't have time to care that you look down.
I don't have time for my excuses.
It's okay that neither of us understands.

I am so loved and so lonely,
so lonely and so loved. Both.

I'm not running anymore.  Not dying of thirst anymore.

I write to be known. I am known: me, by Jesus, we've been traveling.
Call me crazy,
okay.

Don't worry, I have nothing to say. I'm listening.

Do you miss me like I miss you?  
Do I miss you like you miss me?

Oh Jesus time by the pink and purple sunset
Thinking of a traveling guitar boy,
of chai sleep broken by dying beggars
all trying to tell me something.
If the ocean lights don't call us home
we could backpack to the crocodile places
eat thirteen camels with the people
smoke tea and rainy day cigarettes.
Heartache sits like snow on the roof
of the hollow hut Connecticut.
The kids tried too many times for nothing.
Mom dream better for me
Wear your peace face
I'm trying to change

You're talking France nostalgia while upstairs
the weaver makes seven-dollar laments
for international slum chickens.
We can't do better than the break-bone average
reading scorched Chalbi newspapers
hacking coughs and statii soup for company.
Bukowski's in Mumbai eating cheddar
My siblings are in cages down in Egypt
The Spanish Communist cowboys
spill Turkana survivors on the floor of the Greyhound bus

Is there a hood idealist, ghetto healer?
My Sacramento roommate's drinking skeleton coffee
in the bathtub, she's got the Arab fever, so have I,
and not much else but these crazy plague jackets
this hungry smoking December
and Rumi's kids in cold-bread streets with protest signs.
We're easier taught the panic than the magic or the save,
There's too much strange and midnight waste.
You didn't know I needed you but you came through.
You're shimmering in clothes of saxaphone