i am a dog-eared page in a novel idea of yesteryear
you could have returned to me if you'd only kept your finger
right here

Serpent on the Mound

To be hopelessly lost in laughter
At last soul's capture factor
My brethren to behold the repentance
To commence hence forth for duty
In front of a jury in a hurry to fix
A noose in which to swing the change of wind
And choke out the fog for thrills

To be helplessly laughing at death
See, at best we've met our maker
His beard like my brother's arrogance
On a cloud aloud in a sky of screams
It seems things deem rather quick
A slit lets out a box of ills spilled upon the strange
And watch a dog choke on his pills

The decent man put his hands together
Talked about the sky
Talked about the weather
And whether or not to live or rot
Questioning meaning, seeing, and feeling

That's when he felt the rain

Said the man with questioning hands:
Is he with hooks better than we?

his story repeats

Hum the streets
Glow the sun
Heed the call
Start to run
For the sound
They will come
Oh dear god
How does it
Get so loud?


How does one
Get so numb
To get here
To get gone
To be lost
Praise it on
Somber fists
Quarrelist
Soberless
Recognize this
Drunken linguist

Slow the stay
Avoid the way
Bound by prose
And so it woes.

(for there are still lights to be brought out)

With the passing of each step
The crickets halt
Never knowing what's in store
Never knowing I swore for more
But poor wars start tours of lore
And terror

Of time
(and it's error)

For we are here again at this familiar junction to be

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat
Steps one through three
Thus, there must be triadic harmony
Within the changing of leaves
I have yet to see

So await upon me to convert doubt
Alas, there are some words that must be sought out

(while there is still a tongue within my side-ways mouth)

wordlessworld

I borrowed this body from a Folgers can
Full of cigarette-butts, showing a dis-colored man
Wandering in a caffeinated confusion
Listening to the way blood boils in Tucson
He, like I, got used to it
But I never wanted this or that or those
For I am not the writer of this story
And perhaps that's why it's so boring
With the clicks of their finger-tips
I hear the death of conversation
With the chapped lips of of a realist
I sing out the lament of a nation