Need Something LP, full lyrics

Tramps Like Us

I don’t care to hear what you have to say
Not today
The air in here is clear but the breathing sways
And washes away
All my self remembers what our late night flames became
‘Cause tramps like us
Baby we were born to be saved

Life’s a ruthless page from the book of mud
Not made up
It can be snatched up like a diamond by a leather glove
And sold off
Why must we deliver with some question of
That tramps like us
Baby we were born to be loved

And now our memories gather to a place
Where we can be a little more alive
A little more free
And now a casket never took our souls
From the laughter lost and hands to hold and have done
‘Cause tramps like us
Baby we were born to have fun

And can you be a crying angel
Swooping down and smiling at the sun
‘Cause tramps like us
Baby we were born
Yea tramps like us
Baby we were born to run

Insurrection

Let me go and sidle up
Sink like a ball of snakes
Where to be beside us
Rattled from some past mistakes
Indicate a pleasure placement
Likened to a cell mate’s tangled face
And I can not advise
Sheltered from its playmate
Boarded I’m a wave

We are freed by a broken arbor
Dying from some liquid armor sale
And dueled to a sword’s discovery
Of anything that sequences a bar and bail
And why do ships prevail
Beyond the problem of sink or sail
Relax, you said
We’re almost there
Comfort me, I’m growing scared

And frame me into a farmer
I feel as if the switches swing from grace
And barely a plea for something stronger
Shows in a washed up failed up state
I’m free
I’m free

Miles To The Street

I am not sleeping, I’m awake
I am so many things upon the break of day
And as my comfort slips and shakes
You’ll find me happily regarded as insane
But I never knew what that meant anyway
Without the medicine, psychosis will explain
My understanding of the possible refrain
Will follow certainly without producing rain
I’ll go assuredly with an embrace
And dwell upon the miles to the gate

I am tired so I’ll sleep
I’ll lay in comfort as I turn to watch tv
Three episodes and I am drifting toward a dream
I close my eyes and gaze on all there is to see
Oh love of mine, will ya please
What’s on your mind? Is it at peace
Oh darling when I say to you our tempers are diseased
You’ll know the only way to think of them will seem
Like driving all the miles to the street

Oh past of mine, will ya please
Get off my mind, because it seems
That all regrets recorded will undoubtedly deceive
I’d have more care upon the present but we’re all admittedly
Tired of the winter
When it’s summer we’ll be free
As all according paragraphs delete
I guide us down the miles to the street

No Song Sung

I’ve been waiting too long
For someone to tell me
I’ve been waiting too long
I’ve got the dial up high
The record down low
But I’m tempted with the next song
Sick twist, a mother insists
That a patient man dies
From a poorly pattered small talk
So worn, the papers will swarm
Around a high crime
To a file of taxes haul
And so it will go
Beyond my control

Please don’t call my name out loud
I am trying to just sing out
No songs played will find my down
‘Cause I could go at any time
Into another mind
And write it out

Return your neighbor’s old germs
And cover your mouth
For the good of any switchback
Retire to cabins in woods
To playing with fire
And thinking in the abstract
These words are tattered and torn
But together they form
A special on a class act
Wheels turn and carry us forth
To a penchant for wires
Admittedly a cash-wrapped soul
And so it will go
Beyond my control

Please don’t call my name out loud
I am trying to just sing out
No songs played will find my down
‘Cause I could go at any time
Into another mind
And write it out

I wanna tell you a secret
That I’m so in love
And hung up on a reason
That’s only half along
There’s too many please men
More than’s enough
And I’m so tired
Of wondering why

So please don’t call my name out loud
I am trying to just sing out
No songs played will find me down
‘Cause I could go at any time
Into another mind
So I say, please man call my name out loud
I am trying to just sing out
No song sung could ever write me down
‘Cause I could go at any time
Into another mind
And find it out

Taking The Chair

I am off and finding letters in meaning
I am cost-effective strangling
A passage of air
I am not about to fiddle a feeling
It is all that I can do
To be imperfectly aware
And the cross in sections dangle in dreaming
My forgotten features wonder me a haggle in hair
So step off if you’re a fashion for season
It’s your boss I have a problem with for taking the chair
And the old boys bugging
The new world chuggin along

So come on
It’s a drag the underwriter’s
A scheme on a societal con
So be gone
The ground is under water
The sky is a projection of god

It’s a kind of day stuck inside
I wonder what it’s like outside
I wander at the thought of a life
Beyond the passing of time
The novels that I read
And your face with that expression i like

It’s a song
It’s a pass at some enjoyment
A way to be a riddle to all
So come on
I see what isn’t present
I breathe with a perspective I lost
And the old boys buggin’
The new world strugglin’

Living Like a Lorry

Out of the inside track
Now is a fracture
Of never looking back
I’ve been a Jekyll’s mask
Stranded a sweet sad sack
And training my mind to pass
Over a watchful hand

Desert oases moan
Clipped with a classic
Of too much on the throw
Happy to heave and ho
Glad to be grateful at home
Whatever it wants me for

It’s a strange time sleeping in the valley
With a spit shine on a closet full of shoes
And I feel fine just sitting on the trolley
Riding around ‘til the clacks close
And walking ‘til the sides fold
And finding what

A little funny how the streets shine
Blinding a bit
A little money and the furthest field’s falling

So rewind to the features on the folly
I can win time with a pasture full of please
I can insight to the creatures creepy crawling
‘Cause tripping’s not the way it’s supposed to be
And sipped bread’s wasted
Can the new world shake it with me
Living like a lorry
And feeling pretty sorry

Drawn Talking Animals

I suppose it’s a cartoon picture
Trembled by a feeling that forgot
And like much of the comic features,
It’s more than like a rapture than a rot
So pull the car to the side of the road
I cannot drive through tunnels painted on

I know a movie’s not a candlelight
It doesn’t melt the way to theorize
Drawn talking animals should realize
They’d certain die from backfires

So forgive what the language listers
Be for gone to captions on the right
And rewind what the flipped conjectures
Quietude a quite condescent sight
So drive fast down a painted road
We’re young alright
Reconvene the satellites
And memorize
The loss of life

And sing la da da…

Absentee

I control lift and scroll mind recoils and a mantra seeps instead
Mass resign open time press rewind and have central heated beds
There’s a will upon a wistful language feeds to brow
And the mangled evening’s row
Full of gunning down an empty shopping crowd
When no one’s out
Thanks to the shutting down

Much reviled fashion filed fractured smiles out a window pane to hell
Intrascripts backward flips matches strict on a something I can’t tell
It’s a game I wanna write myself beyond and separately a distance looking down
Bring my crown
And sell me out
Speech is money now

Do you think or do you know or do you wanna find out
Will you follow the bay or the ocean’s drowned about
Will you keep what you pray close inside yourself
And be gone overjoyed with an answer from the clouds
And run around
Going underground

Is the past for a while like a burning bush
Is the trick tree of life meant to rile or shush
Is a calm state of joy just an electric strike
If you plant it will it grow will it be goddess like
Shadows move and creep
Engines set to flee
Oh, absentee

Need Something

(Have a happy) Need something
(Have a happy) Breathe something
(Have a happy) Read something
(Have a happy) Earn something
(Have a happy) Steal something
(Have a happy) Sell something
(Have a happy) Struct something
(Have a happy) Feel something
(Have a happy) Hear something
(Have a happy) Brave something
(Have a happy) Share something
(Have a happy) Save something

It’s an attack on a private life’s public life
It’s a retract of a thousand songs sung
It’s a reward for some hours hours caught inside of
It’s an insanity nip at the heels hung
So be courageous and go sleepwalking total makeup
So be outrageous and stay eager and drunk
So be insightful with a memory of kinda kinda
Just use what’s closest to go have some clean fun

And reel to reel your feelings, intrepid dreamer
Toe to heel to toe to heel to be gone
Describe your insatiable for freedom rocker
Both you and I were born to take up and run

(Have a happy) Need something
(Have a happy) Break something
(Have a happy) Live something
(Have a happy) Pray something
(Have a happy) Smoke something
(Have a happy) Grow something
(Have a happy) Say something
(Have a happy) Know something

And drive and deal past the burning system straddle secrets
Be an original and take up no gun
Seethe and strip down the casual liners language listers
Be unbelievable and haggle no sun
Slip and slide by a bodega bumping common whiskers
With able toddles take your teeth and be done
Deputize the inherent pridist prodding preacher
Compromise with no ridiculous drug

And need something
Need something
Need something
Need something
Need something (alright)
Need something (all rise)
Need something (all time)
Need something (alright)

New Fiction Out Now!

I have a book out today! It is called The Supposed So: A Fictional Memoir in Five Parts.

I started writing the first novella in the series just about exactly 10 years ago, and the subsequent four followed in waves until I finished the last one just this past Fall. It’s about a lot of things, perhaps the most obvious thread being the tenuous nature of reality, and how the mind, full of ideas, ends up placing importance on subtleties and details in its persistence to somehow find meaning in life’s strange currents. It’s about love, confusion, the confusion of love, the love of confusion. It’s about mental illness and music and friendship, failing, failing then succeeding, succeeding then failing. It’s about the general sadness we so often feel just because of nothing in particular.There is a bit of avant garde strangeness to its narrative structure, but it is very much a coherent piece of work. Its writing was a labor, edited, reworked, and rewritten countless times over the years. It isn’t perfect, but it’s the book I needed to write. I’m excited about its possibilities. And am quite glad it’s finally finished.

Because of the nature of print-on-demand services, it’s more expensive than a book should be. So, if you’d like to own and read a copy while saving about 15 bucks, email me via the contact link at the top of this page and we can arrange for you to pay just the cost of printing and shipping (bout 22 bucks). Otherwise, check out this link to see and read more about it and to purchase at list price.

Thanks for your support. I hope if you’re reading this that you’re continuing to survive our weird existence, and that you know I miss you dearly. If you aren’t reading this, I miss you too probably, and I hope that that vibe floats through the space between us and reaches you in moments of quiet.

contact your members of congress

*text RESIST to 50409 and follow the prompts to contact your sitting members of congress*

I don’t know what you believe. I don’t know if you think our sitting president is a good example for anything to anyone. I don’t know if you believe the last election to have been fraudulent in some way. I don’t know if you watch BLM protesters and think they are “thugs” or whatever other racist terminology your diction appropriates. I don’t know if you read the president’s tweets and believe every word he writes. I don’t know if you want lower taxes or small government, or whatever other silkscreen of legislated selfishness you believe to be for the good of all. I don’t know how you think of people of color or women, and I don’t know if you harbor grievances of a denied white superiority or of a patriarchy you feel slipping away. I don’t know who you vote for down the ticket, and I don’t know if you think democrats are “stealing” “your” country from you. What I do know, is that what we all witnessed yesterday was the culmination of years of a man spewing lies and vitriol, in an inane attempt to cop popularity points, claiming falsities for the basis of narcissism. What I know is that if you still have deaf ears, you are outside of your own mind, sitting comfortably in a reality split from what you see and hear with your own senses. What I know is that two weeks is too long.

https://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/text/18/2383?fbclid=IwAR11M2cIfp6Buj2bXW0g1TI2zlcT26A_RkzEpv3rJ4uUAs3rEHlKewYuCIM

All His Consternation

It’s not uncommon to deny
the pasture played and out of sight.
Without a daring act of life,
what are you doing?
I’ve been a house with melted walls.
I’ve been the basement cold and dark.
I’ve been a door without a lock.
And I’ve been looking

for a way in,
an unforthcoming path to spin,
a dogged absent curfew of the mind.
I am a give and take,
a desperate look to apathy,
a potion boiled over
as your life’s at stake.
Come see me look up.
Come see my old platonic self.
Come hear me scream no conversation
to the clouds.

Oh darling, won’t you sit?
Take a pull from the bottle marked gin.
Take a clear exaggeration
and lay it on the cursed and dying kids.
For christ’s sake! The moon shifts,
and I howl through the gaps in the cliffs.
And I can spell it out for ya, baby.
I’m exactly where I’ve been:
Down a river up and dammed
where a while seems infinite.

So hold me now.
We’ll find out
what breathes in,
what breathes out.

But right now, all I know is
you gotta play the game.
You gotta compare every name
of yet another older white man
blindly missing all the plagues.
And the taste of blood
could never make him form a flood.
Attacking all his consternation,
call in some back up.
‘Cause my fingers crack and bend
for every dollar that I spend.
I swear I’m just sitting here on the sofa
as I watch my wallet thin.

So pack up.
We’re staying.

Reach For Sorries

Think about a thing worth thinking about
and travel into your mind,
where you’ll find some wants and needs
and little else but worthless rhymes.
My head is on your shoulder.
No, my heart is on your sleeve,
racking up a sort of mystical fight
just like David and his giant,
named to show how big he could be
if ever there was a light on
to show everyone what he’s made of.
Still, he loses every time he’s read,
a pebble to the face could shed
some much needed soul in the clouds.
And David,he’s still around
basking in a victory
now centuries old.
Now sometimes he finds himself
just doing what he’s told
with no rebellion in the fold.
No soldier for the world no more.
No, now he’s wearing thin.
Like a dog he sheds and winces
at the sound of passing airplanes.
Surely one could take his eyes.
Surely one could snap his spine.
Surely the pilot has a plan
to revenge old Goliath.
Maybe now.
Maybe David’s all alone
because he twisted the plot.
No warrior can bear to be forgot.
Even when his memory rots
and shudders from his neighbor’s gardens
that he somehow never noticed.
Funny how we see some things in
different ways as time goes on.
My loveliness is shifty, I suppose.
My kindness has its limits.
My understanding drifts from claim to claim
and I’m not for a minute insipid.
And I haven’t been.
I’m as stable as a mule,
though all roped up and doused in fuel
to be aflame with nervous ticks and
subjective subatomic guilt and
the worry that the ticking clock is
everything to the story.

And I’m not sorry for the way I feel,
the books I read or
the soil I steal to
fashion semi-hydroponic apparatus
I used to grow a little faster.
You’re 32, you say.
Just ask what the fantasy proclaims.
And name yourself as David.
Laugh and scream and say,
“Take me as I am:
“Nothing if not a helpless little man.
“Nothing if not a shame.”
Reach for sorries.
Take the blame.

Title

It’s hustle to bustle beneath drainpipe sewers.
And nothing but nothing could trade steaks for their skewers.
My mind’s indecision comes couth in the mirror
but no one else knows what insanity incurs.
It’s too intrepid to dream
and too strange to differ.

Yet so goes the stripes of cloth,
dingy and dirged
through their penchant to saunter
both trite and disturbed.
As a combat zone winks at the world back at home
’til a drift of contrition goes weak at their nose.
Still, table teeth smile their pearly white bones
on a crowd of deplorables gagged with hormones.
‘Cause nothing but fewer could mean rats under molehills
built by antagony
droplets of steam
set by angles of brawn and brine
from angels of time after time
and the time after that time that speaks under dawns.
My insolence begs you for sure.
But crafts of the plagues go for dollars and purse.

Thoughts in the Belfry: Essays on the Songs

Listen to the album here

Thoughts in the Belfry

Introduction

Welcome to the listening experience of a lifetime, of eight songs I wrote years ago that never got their fair shake in recording technique, arrangement, nor execution, as well as one new thirteen minute epic poem set to two chords and a classic folk melody line (full disclosure, I wrote the words to the tune of “Ring Them Bells” by Bob Dylan).

What follows in this document are the brief stories of the songs chosen for this retrospective, their origins and their writing and anything else I can think of today.

Please listen to the record at a high volume, preferably with a pair of decent headphones, or in your car.

Gloria

This was the first song I wrote after getting out of the hospital, March 2012. My first full blown manic episode resulted in psychosis and internment at a psychiatric facility in Cleveland, Ohio, where I met people who I thought were other people, and where I doodled and rambled all over my hardcover copy of The Prophet, being both convinced that I had written it – albeit in a different lifetime – and that it was the one true bible of existence. I still have the latter feeling, and have since bought a clean copy to read and peruse. I rarely look at that first, hospital copy.

Either way, I got out after a week of thinking the food was made of plastic, and demanding I be let outside to smoke a cigarette. A carton or so later, I was sitting in my sister’s attic – which had become my bedroom, thank god – and wrote this song. It is chock full of words and phrases that can be said in different accents and rhyme in different ways, or not rhyme at all sometimes. The scheme of those rhymes is ostensibly random, but which also were wrought with great care and precision.

The lyrics go a number of ways as it progresses, but the hook of the song – some variation on “Oh my god” – is a natural viewpoint of my mindset after those ill events of 2011-2012. I can’t speak much about it because one, I don’t remember those years too well, and two, I was at fault for just about everything bad that happened, though I can’t blame myself. Bipolar Disorder is a funny thing, and mine is very very bad unmedicated. Oh well.

The arrangement for this recording, as with all of the songs on this record, was generally improvised at the point of recording. A few takes here or there incurred, but without question I couldn’t do it again if I tried. It’d still be good. But it’d be different for sure.

At the End of the Day

I remember thinking of the line, “I’m just a magazine on the newsstand at the end of the day,” and it floored me. I immediately sat down at the piano and bam, a few minutes later had a finished song. I say it about a lot of my songs, but this is perhaps the best I’ve written. Oddly, I’m sure I’ll say that again before this essay is finished. So be it.

It’s a funny thing, songwriting. At both stages of the writing of this song, I thought that it was perfect. And both versions are indeed. The original I released as a single from a recording I made on Islesboro, Maine, on a piano with more dead keys than live. The video of that performance still exists– probably on my Facebook page somewhere. Either way, it can be heard on some or other single somewhere else on my bandcamp page, which is where you bought this. Bandcamp. Dig.

Obviously, this version of this song is not played on piano.

One day, as I was sitting in our New York apartment playing guitar, I stumbled upon this riff and immediately knew it was for this song. I added the intro from a melody that I’ve been whistling for over a decade. This is a fucking good song. Thanks goes to Allie for suggesting I delete the double tracked vocal. It’s better for it.

The lyrics, as mentioned with that first line I thought of, are all about being forgotten. And the end line, “God save the queen ‘cause I love her eyes,” is a summation of my feelings about revolution for the sake of it. Truly we need one, yes, the world over, but I can’t condone stabbing anyone in the heart, as it were. “Fit for kings, not a nod to the knights,” is me saying, “aren’t you soldiers just hired killers?” Protect me if you might, but the clearest purpose you serve is to rattle the world into oblivion with your bombs and your guns. Cold-hearted, brother. Makes me ill.

Devil Driven

“Devil Driven” was written on guitar, but there’s a piano version floating around that I like a lot. This version is an attempt to combine the two, and I like how it turned out.

It was the first song I remember writing and thinking, “I’m pretty good at this.” There’s little structure to the words beyond their rhythmic nature, but the song I think flows nicely and without hiccup. The “devil” in the lyrics, putting his hands out to play on the baby grand, I do believe has taught me how to live and love…rock and roll as a product of Earth means it inherently holds a sort of evil, though amidst a sort of heavenly abode as well.

However, it should be said that throughout the song, I’m writing about my Dad, straight up. “Dry your eyes, my son, and lift your head to sing. Anywhere you are contains most everything,” is exactly what I would have expected my Dad to want to say to me after he died. “I’ll swear by you for my eternal life” are his words to me somewhere outside of space and time.

No Ship For Sailing

I was 19 years old, had just dropped out of college and moved to Asheville, North Carolina. I had played a house gig and a very talented local songwriter, and friend to my sister, et al, saw me and asked if I would open for her. So I did.

About halfway through my set of slow, sad songs – and one in particular with the hook “whose bodies are these?” …yikes! – a man from the back of the bar screamed, “The world is fine. Play something happy.” It goes without saying I took issue with it, and went home that night and wrote this song. It’s one of the first times I thought to myself, “how can I make this just really really catchy?” And I did. In some alternate universe, this is a hit single.

The nautical references ar a clear copy of Okkervil River, The Decemberists, and whatever else I was listening to back then (that’s about it, you could say) but I still like it because it takes the idea of sailing on a vast ocean and flipping it on its side, willing you to believe that all I want to do is sail, but I can’t figure out how. A later song on this collection, “And I’m No Boat” acts in a similar way, and to some degree is the slow, more plaintive version of “No Ship.”

Just FYI, the last lines of the song are, “I would send my patterns, thoughts and doubts as far to sea as I could shout. And you would do the same until it all ended up miles away. And by the way, it really shouldn’t end up miles away.” That’s important.

Fumblin’ Still

“Fumblin’ Still” was a strange song to write. For such an early song in my repertoire, it’s pretty complicated and it jumps around key signatures, strumming patterns, riffs, and melodies. It’s almost some kind of psychedelic rock, without the rock. All acoustic guitars, as was my custom throughout this record.

Using the opposite of the boat metaphor: the house metaphor. Originally meant for the Such a Sinister… album, I cut it because that album was too long as it was. It’s too long as it is, too. Nevertheless, it’s a really cool song. And the line “a gentleman in a three-piece suit is a fool. Unless it suits him well” is just great. I dig pretty much all of these lyrics. There’s good couplets everywhere. And the end, “it’s the grey skies that make me blue” is a lyric I know you wish you’d written.

Tricks of the Mind

Another manic episode song. This one was written in Portland, Oregon right in late winter, 2013.

It had been only a year since my first breakdown, and this time proved to be sooooooo much worse. After about six months of pretty constant decline, I erupted into oblivion (again around Valentine’s Day, my god) and ended up on the street, where I walked around for the next six weeks. And say “walked around” instead of “slept” or “lived” because neither of those words bring across the fact that I didn’t sleep and I almost died.

Sometime right before I hit the street, I wrote this song. The whole thing is me freaking out that my Dad didn’t want to be dead and buried in a coffin. I’ve always kind of had a thing about coffins, in a way. From my very real fear of vampires, to the idea that bodies aren’t at rest when boxed up…I dunno, but I know I don’t want one. That should be known. I also would prefer to die outside at night. Just so you know.

The recording of this version was really fun and it sounds just about perfect to me. That’s a clarinet (it’s a clarinet on a good few of these songs) and then the brass comes in, and my goodness. Terrific. Again, all these parts were effectively improvised, one after the other.

And I’m No Boat

A sweet little love song. The first one I wrote for Allie when we first met. I even include the line “…something I have written down in code,” like I wanted to make clear I thought she was aces, but I didn’t want to make it too obvious I was already writing songs about her. Goodness.

It isn’t really about her though. Really it isn’t. It’s that nautical theme flipped over on its head again. I’m the boat. Or no boat, actually. And I gotta wait for the wind, and even when there is wind, I’m being turned this way and that, but not really even this way and that because I’m following the stars, so God’s In Charge. Who knows.

I like this song a lot. Just guitar and vocals here. Nothing else fit.

Unwinding

“I don’t like this one. It sounds like you’re on an acid trip.”
-My Mom

It kind of is. Another song I wrote right after my first hospital stay. Originally, it was a beat Cory Maidens made, hence the writing credit. I ended up recording it not long after, full of noisy electric guitars and bad keyboard drums. This version is a simple kick drum, and “heavy metal organ” and I think it’s cool as shit. It doesn’t fit on this album at all, which is why it fits on this album so well, in my opinion.

The lyrics are just wordplay. They mean as much as you want them to mean, which means they don’t really mean that much. I mean, they mean something…you get it. It’s mostly just practicing internal rhyming and rapping instead of singing. This would prove to be the last song I decided was an okay variation on hip hop.

Thoughts in the Belfry

We’ve made it to the namesake, “Thoughts in the Belfry.” This is a long and complicated lyric on the guilt of living well in the time of suffering. It’s about recognizing the bullshit around you, especially those on the so-called “Christian Right.” More like Reich. Fuck them all, indeed. Neo-facism is no excuse for failing to live by God. Eat the rich.

It’s also about the passage of time, and the willingness to change amidst a changing society. But again, it’s about the bullshit entrenched in the thinking behind the movement. Sometimes people are dumb and don’t notice. And on the other side of the spectrum, so corrupt they don’t notice. “To steal is fine as long as you’re a company man” is just about the summation of it all for me. We have Socialism for the Rich and the Powerful. Bail out the banks, bail out big business. Don’t take me on my word that I need your help…but again, not Me. I’m living well. And there again is the guilt.

This song turns into a song about family, acceptance, forgiveness, and love. I call my Mother royalty. I call my stepdad father. I remind my sisters to be original and regal, because they are.

And then the end comes, after thirteen minutes, and the album is over.

Thanks for purchasing. Thanks for listening. Thanks for reading.

Toodles.

A Drift of Contrition

Why do my eyes deceive me? he asked.
What are the tides going to bring?
Where does the stretch of the canyon
meet animals, and birds on the wing?
Do such stipulations reek of deception?
Have the contents of reality sworn to be lost to time?
I imagine a drift of contrition,
before landlocked insanity felled
and we went blind.
Blind to the falling stone.
Blind to the worry wart.
Blind to the faithful and god-fearing.
Blind to the worship at midnight.
Blind to the daily prayers, repeated
without consciousness.
To the regretful actions and the outright sinfulness.
I doubt you bring cards to the table of god.
I bring cigarettes and a stoner’s guilt.
You bring coffee breath and flagrant lies.
You bring idiocy.
And what else?
Time will only tell us.
Time will, surely.

And surely, what with time as a whole,
in step with a continuum and a drunken spine,
do the ides of April go tumbling into May.
And the flowers burst like eggshells
and the leaves grow overnight.
And the grass gets greener,
and it’s mown sometimes.
However we are, with or without labor,
it is the temperance of being together
that goes slipped into dancing at dawn.
I wake and am perfectly calm.

So for goodness go forsaken
with a riddle at your side,
a sandwiched rock and hard place
you’ve gotten stuck between.
See neither one
while laying on the wall.

Nature’s Slow Resolve

Oh to work without escaping
into brilliant light, forgiven
by a candle’s wick.
Oh to treat afternoons like
stark white gloomy skies
are nothing but a shield
for the sunshine.
I cover my eyes.

Laugh like you were born smiling,
try to reach God with every grin,
with your cheeks tucked in.
With your railroad sins
hidden by tired sacks of dawn.
I’ve coffee then gone.

Please deny no passage
to a riddle on the beach,
like pleasure in the pulpit
was a sideways reach to heaven,
lowercase inside my mind.
I kick and scream in 4/4 time.

Lie under a whippoorwill
and tease the branches well
until the leaves tickle your ankles
and you cry from giggling.
Nature’s slow resolve
seeps through your skin.