Poem #16--Follow the Burning Rainbow

Follow the burning rainbow to a pot of plastic pennies
you seek the milk of human kindness
but there is not any;
fair Helen, chained, is made to plow
proud Pegasus, a gelding now
Apollo's chariot is black
Orion has a broken back.

Yet youthful folly will insist
it still sees legends in the mist
where fairy tales are very real
and happy endings still exist.

Follow the severed skyline to a place where eagles die
the very brook and wood corrupt,
the sun, a cataracted eye;
the winds of change have lost their stride
the moon no longer rules the tide
the oceans fester like a sore
infected to the planet's core.

And hope is but an inmate
in a prison none can ever breach
and loyalties are sandy spires
of castles built upon a beach.

Follow the heavy hail of stones to a kingdom made of glass
the human river floods its banks
and hatred grows like grass;
the bureaucratic beasts are bred
their fiber optic veins run red
all they know is rich or poor
and all they ever want is more.

And comfort is a coffin lid
the shuts the noise out when you've died
when paradise has been revoked
the graveyard's where you'll go to hide.

Follow the spyglass vector to the depths of outer space
in search of something new to kill
to thrill the human race
which, by its own hand, bears a curse
the touch of Midas in reverse;
we glorify ourselves as lords
then slip and fall upon our swords.

And the rainbow is a conflagration
trailing smoke and crashing down
and no one even watched it fall
or mourned it when it hit the ground.

Kenneth "Frito" Lay is Dead (and other boo-hoos)

Well, Kenneth Lay is now dead. Boo-fucking-hoo. Bye, Kenny. Thanks for sinking the big, pink torpedo into so many people's hopes and dreams before you struck out on the Worm Road. Bollocks to ya, pal.

K.L. joins the vaunted Fortner's Boo-hoo-hooing List, a list for those I don't and won't miss. Also on the list: Benito "Finito" Mussolini; Joe-Joe "Don't call me Jenny" McCarthy; the Columbine nerds that wore the corny-ass trenchcoats (their biggest mistake? They should have started with themselves first); all of the Orcs from Lord of the Rings; Kyle Sandlin and Joe Gibson, former next-door-neighbors of mine at Marshall U. (they're probably not dead yet, but I just can't wait to put them on the list--they're THAT nice); Adolph, naturally; and Michael Moore (again, he's not dead yet, but when he is, you can be assured that Big Business is to blame!!!).

On the You're-Cool-So-You-Can-Live List: My cat, Pippen; my imaginary friend, Doren Pillock III; all of the Bailey family (all 9,000 members); and the red-haired girl at the Sophia Food Lion grocery store (nice pants, babe).

That is all.

Son of a bitch, that puts a lot of pressure on a guy.

Hello there, nobody-in-particular. As I was just now perusing the blog of Sir Gooseyard the Verisimilitudinous (which word did I just make up? Hmm???) at www.gooseyard.blogspot.com I saw something very upsetting--my blog site on his list of recommended reading. Well, this is a terrible thing (although, Thanks for the flattery, pal), as I have posted almost NOTHING on it. Furthermore, when I do post something, it is usually during one of my depressive nadirs and therefore is a load of ghastly tripe.

Therefore, I must post this musing that I had whilst wondering around my processing plant the other day. Okay, here it is: You know how Obi-Wan Kenobi is talking to Luke Skywalker on Tattoine in the original Star Wars, explaining who Darth Vader is and all that junk? He says something to this effect at one point: "Vader betrayed and murdered your father." What I was thinking was, man, how ONE word could make a major difference in that movie. What if Kenobi had said: "Vader raped and murdered your father". Huh? Man, that would be freaky, wouldn't it?

Anyhow, that was what I was thinking at work. That would explain a lot about my social world, wouldn't it?

PS I do not condone the raping of Jedi knights, unless it is for charity.

Frisbee League Team Names, first update

Here are some of the newly-created teams for the Frisbee Baseball League--

1) The Boston Stranglers
2) The Los Angeles Commuters
3) The Cleveland Plains-Dealers
4) The Mississippi Burning
5) The Virginia Wolfes
6) The New York Minutes
7) The Oklahoma Laters (get it?)

The commissioner of the FBL is Philo Penobscott, former undersecretary to D.H. Lawrence Olivier Newton-John Wayne Gacey.

Frogs in winter

I try to convince myself that making a blog entry is a good thing. But I keep coming back to the fact that, no matter what you link to or how interesting your comments are, it's no different than getting a vanity plate for your vehicle. So many clever people in the world; so, so many. So many people, period. Everywhere you look, bumping against each other in the grocery aisles and fighting for the last Dinkly Dan doll every Christmas at Target. Some are nice, some are morbidly self-absorbed, some are evil, and some would constantly argue just what the definition of those words really are. People always have a viewpoint and always have to argue about something. There's always got to be some fucking argument about something. People write books, people fuck, people cut ribbons at ceremonies, people help old people out in the winter, people do etcetera.

Now, I'm not taking the old "what's the point of a blog" route. I don't need to ask anyone that question. I don't care for anyone else's answer. I, because I'm an asshole, would probably spit carefully-worded acrimony at anyone who bothered to tell me what to think of any given situation. I do a lot of thinking. LOTS. I have had all kinds of ideas; ideas of things I need to do creatively or otherwise. But you know what? I have thought about them so much, trying to figure out what will be the upshot of doing those things, following a chain of possibilites that branch out from the center of my actions, that I can't see anything useful out on the periphery of human interaction or personal development that the branches could possibly lead to. You can think too much. I'm not that intelligent in a lot of ways, and I've got no motivation. But still I've thought about things too much. Making a blog entry is not a good idea. Nor is the vanity plate. It stinks of delusion and/or desperation. In my case I am probably both of these things, but make no mistake, no one can afford to take a position of smug superiority relative to me over this fact. Because, and I would assure them if they listened to me, I believe that they are no better off than me.

I know only one useful thing, really, and it's the only thing I care enough about to debate--there's no more hopeful a sound than frogs in winter. You want to know when winter will end? Fuck your doppler radar and your know-it-all technological monster of a world. Listen for the frogs. They are heralds of hope. Spring will follow, and a song will follow with it.

The Shameful Drambuie Affair

4-12-1891

To the Esteemed, Much-Adored, and Just Generally Well-Liked Perriwig Pigg:

Much time has passed, my old China plate, since I've penetrated the well with my large, quivering plume and eructed the living ink onto paper to send you good tidings. Ahem. Well, anyway, we all know that I'm just ace in everybody's book, and I admit that freely. However, I have had my share of embarrassing moments, and I thought that, for the sake of my own hubris, I'd write a series of letters which would delve further into some of my missteps. After all, one cannot hope to grasp the big dipper if he hasn't the courage to straddle Pegasus. Er. Anyhow, here is the account of a shameful affair regarding Drambuie, Jimi Hendrix, and a generator.

In 1998, while working at Family Toy Warehouse, a pal of mine invited me to watch his band perform a set of rock songs at the old Chase Lounge, which was a ratty little swill hole just past the Char, NOT a piece of furniture. The guy, or kid in all actuality, worked at FTW as well. His name was David Deming but I always called him Davy Jones. At that time I was living in a one-room, low-income apartment at Wilbrien Apartments. It had a security gate, so I guess I could brag about how I lived in an exclusive Gated Community; the only problem with that is that the gate was more to keep us on the inside than to keep everybody else out. Anyway, I made about $5.50 hourly and worked about 30 hours a week, so I was basically eating powdered donuts for dinner every night. All I had was my Super Nintendo, my CDs, my love of beer, and my dreams of one day being a hoity-toit. I also happened to have a copy of "The Everything Bartender's Book" and I had fallen in lust with the idea of making every drink in the book. Never mind that I barely knew a liquor from a liqueur.

So, the day of the big gig arrives,followed shortly by a bad thunder storm. The band is late, which is sad, but even sadder is the fact that the 12 hayseeds in the bar couldn't give a damn less whether the band showed up or not. In fact, it seemed obvious to me that no one knew that a band was even supposed to play. I join yet another coworker at the bar, a Barney Fife lookalike named Otis, and proceed to make a complete pretentious jackass out of myself. A dishwater blonde with a physique like Karen Carpenter is tending the bar. Have you ever seen someone who is working their jaws like they're chewing gum without actually having any gum in? Well, she was. I don't know why. She asked Otis, his pal, and me what we wanted.
Otis: "An icehouse, please."
His pal: "Yeah, I'll have one too."
Me: "I'd like a champagne cocktail, please."

She didn't give me a dirty look. She just looked at me and said, "What did you say?" I repeated my request. "We don't have those", she informed me. She gave the other two guys their Icehouses and turned to me.
"How about a Rusty Nail?", I asked.
Now, you have to understand something about the Chase Lounge. It was about as big as a pump house and about as sophisticated as one. If you've seen the Boar's Nest, the bar/restaurant from "The Dukes of Hazzard", then you have an excellent idea of what the Chase Lounge looked like inside.
"What?", she said, just a little irritated.
I decided to help her out. "It's 1.5 ounces scotch to a half-ounce of drambuie, with the drambuie poured in last." What makes this bit so shameful is that, not only was I being a pretentious codpiece, but that I pronounced the word "drambuie" with a Glasgow brogue like the Scottish singer Fish did when he used the word during a Marillion song. I had actually learned of the liquer's existence from the song.
"What is it??", she repeated.
"Drrrombyewwwww", I said yet again, Scottish brogue and all, but now I was fairly humiliated.
Outside, it had started to absolutely come down in buckets.
"Look, man, the bartender couldn't get a babysitter, I'm just fillin' in 'til he can get back."
From here the conversation descended into The Cheese Shop skit from Monty Python and, again, I'm not making this shit up.
"I'll have a Moosehead. Beer."
"Don't have that."
"Okay. Do you have a Samuel Adams or Guinness?"
"No."
I gave up at that point. I knew it was hopeless. "I'll have a Corona then."
"Uh..." She looks toward the shitty little cooler. "Sorry, we don't carry that."
"Um, what do you have?"
"Budweiser, Bud Light, Icehouse, Natural Light, Natural Ice."
I think I got a Natural Ice so I could get drunk more quickly. That proved to be a mistake. This was also about the first time that the power died in the bar and the generator kicked on. Eventually full power was restored, but the storm was still raging outside.

The band showed up about a half hour after they were supposed to. By then I was on probably my third Natural Ice, and they're fairly potent, and the rednecks (a group to whom I belonged since the U.S.S. Drrrombyeww couldn't save me)had the jukebox pumping out...well, I don't remember, but it was either Lynyrd Skynyrd or Garth Brooks. I DO remember that some fucker had put in about 100 quarters. Well, the band starts setting up and I feel, even through the building buzz, that we're going up Shite Creek without a paddle. They are three college kids with the mandatory clone cool dude college haircuts and sports-related shirts in a room full of checkered jackets and Red Man chewing tobacco hats.

Before they can start playing they are introduced by some dude (maybe the proprietor, but where the hell was he when I was being debased at the bar?) and there is an uncomfortable moment when it looks like the rednecks are going to keep the jukebox playing while the band plays. It gets shut off (and I promise you that there was some very audible muttering about this) and the group, whose name escapes me, fires into its first song, Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile". I'm trying to figure out if the bass player is the singer or the guitar player. Guess what? NOBODY is singing. They don't HAVE a fucking singer. To me, playing these songs without a singer is like displaying popular works of art with all of the straight lines left out. The rednecks have no choice but to gather around, because it's too loud to hear yourself think. In the middle of the second song, which I believe was "Rock and Roll" by Led Zeppelin, the power goes out again. Boom-bap, boom-bap, all you can hear is Davy Jones drumming, keeping time like the song's still going. Apparently everybody kept playing, and when the generator kicks in, they are all still together, about 12 seconds further into the song like they'd never lost power.
Not bad, I must say.
Meanwhile, I've been drinking many, many Natural Ices (I was fairly hearty in those days) and feeling damned good. The power has gone off a couple of times by the latter part of the set, but the rednecks have become fairly receptive to the Dorm Monkees or whatever they were called. By the way, they really were a very tight band. The guitar player was exceptional. They launch into "Red House" by Hendrix (having already played "Voodoo Chile" and "White Room" by Cream twice due to a lack of tunes) and I, who have been sitting at the very back of the room propped up against the wall, feel like adding the vocals to the track, since I knew the lyrics. So when the first verse pops up, everyone gets to hear the drunken, pretentious, would-be Scotsman-cum-bluesman in the back shouting, "There's a red house over yonder/that's where my baby stays..." I sang a few lines and then the guitar player shot me a look so hateful that, even in my wasted state, I shut up immediately. But, for the record, I will say this: he was a prick to think that everyone in the crowd was going to be perfectly all right with the idea of playing famous rock songs with NO FUCKING VOCALS! It still pisses me off. It makes no more sense than having Marcel Marceau miming Pavarotti. None whatsoever.

To make a long story over, I'll say this: This is a tale of my own embarrassment. In the end, the band won the crowd over fairly well (albeit a crowd you could have put around a medium-sized campfire). Davy Jones had his gorgeously hot girlfriend with him that night while I had Otis, so I can't make fun of him. In the end, I came off looking like a complete twerp who needed a pitch cap applied to his head. The end.


So, dear Perriwig, I hope you have learned something from this cautionary tale, for I assure you that I did not. As I dabble my long, slightly curved quill into this warm, black ink, I can only think of you, perched upon your window seat, stroking your long, black beard with an amused, distracted hand as you read this. Now, to make this missive complete, I shall set my hot, waxen seal upon the parchments folds and pop it up your way. The letter, that is. Oh, and tell Oscar Wilde to put the tack back in my fucking stable.

Yours dearly,

...in conversation, I mean,



Rexford Badpenny, Cad about Town

Poem #15--My Friend and My Wife

MY FRIEND AND MY WIFE


My dying bride of thirty years
remember when we met?
I knew we wouldn't last forever
but it hasn't been forever yet.
Sweet bolt of Love with a hue of gold
and the box, all in red, where it's kept;
sweet bird of youth, when it's journey is done,
with its memories feathers its nest.
I sit beside you, my hand in your hand
and you on the threshold of the end of your life
I bring you comfort, your husband and friend
and you bring me meaning, my friend and my wife.
My undying love, I'll fashion for you
into a chain like the days of our lives;
link upon link of bottomless passion
and when we're both gone
that Love still survives.

Poem #14--SadlyMadly

SADLYMADLY


Who sad? You sad. Me sad, so sad.
Sadly sitting do I still, grimly seeking sullen thrills.
Oh so sad from day to day, oh so desperate--sadly pray.
Grinning like a killer mad, prompted by the swords of sad.
Staring at the mirror's face, staring into outer space.
Outer space is staring back; mirror's face is sadly cracked.
I sad. Why sad? No glad, just sad.
Sad, said I--sad, but why? Sad and mad but never glad.
Sadness like a suit I wear. Many see but no one care.
Laughing louder, night and day. Not in glad, but maddened way.
I sad. When sad? All the time sad.
Friendless grinning, happy daze. Glassy eyes with icy glaze.
Waking sadly in the morn. Would be glad if never born.
Writhing like a carcass mad, kept alive by swords of sad.
Sadlymadly, living badly; take my mind, I give it gladly.
I sad, too bad! Sad times I've had.
Sadlybadly, living madly; give me hope, I'd take it gladly.
Sickly like a fallen leaf; mad I am, so struck with grief.

Pride is hard to swallow or chew; regrets are abundant, confessions are few.

Poem #13 Food Fight Fundays

FOOD FIGHT FUNDAYS


Come on down to Food Fight Fundays
open all week, after church on Sundays
eat yourself a cake, drink a chocolate shake
let yourself get caught up in the Food Fight Fun craze
You say your girlfriend is a prude?
We'll put Rohypnol in her food
and she'll be sure to please or your next meal's free!

Come on in to Food Fight Fundays
If you've had enough Hot Dog on Bundays
Bring your wife, bring the mistress, too
let 'em have a go in the Food Fight Fun Maze
A fully-stocked bar, ball pits, too
the teens all like the Heavy Petting Zoo
It's always really great and we're open late!

Come on in to Food Fight Fundays
the best damned time since Atilla the Hundays
the waitresses are flirts and they wear tight skirts
and they'll do a little more during Lap Fun Mondays
Tuesday nights, the kids can watch a show
some animatronic rigmarole
and if you're bored to death try our crystal meth!

Come on up to Food Fight Fundays
if you're sick and tired of Shakespearean Pundays
you college kids are broke and your credit's a joke
but you can pay your tabs off in a whole lot of fun ways
the guys can cook and straighten chairs
the girls can work off their debts upstairs
and everyone is clean though we have vaccines!

Come on now to Food Fight Fundays
for Friday night's Twilight Pie Fight Fun Phase
when the siren starts find the nearest cart
and smash a pie or brick into the nearest dumb face
be a good sport and don't be sore
you signed a waiver at the door
so if you get concussed don't you raise a fuss.

Food Fight, Food Fight, Food Fight Fundays
seven days a week, all of them are Fundays
Come on now, let us show you how, at
Food......Fight...............FUNDAYS

Poem #12--Suicide Stew

SUICIDE STEW


If the darkness is swelling inside of your heart
and your rainbow is eight shades of blue
if you think it's too late now to make a fresh start
I'd advise you to sample some Suicide Stew.

You don't need a mixer, a pot, or a pan
you don't need an oven or fridge
you just need a tree and some double-braid rope
or the courage to jump off a bridge.

If your wife or your husband moved out without warning
and you're suddenly craving the end
if they left you to cry and they won't tell you why
I'll tell you what I'd recommend...

You don't need a compass, a map, or a light
you don't need a raft or canoe
just swallow your weight in antidepressants
and then you have Suicide Stew.

If nobody calls you to say "happy birthday"
if nobody calls you at all
just pick up a gun and move at a run
to the dimly-lit end of the hall.

You don't need a safety, a strap, or a scope
you don't need to be a good shot
just suck on the barrel and pull on the trigger
the Suicide Stew's getting hot!

Who needs a world full of self-serving phonies?
They just want to sell you some junk
they'd kill their own dads for a good parking spot
so go to the pub and get drunk.

Slam a tequila, throw down some whiskey
shotgun a pitcher or two
close down the bar, then head to your car
you're ready for Suicide Stew.

Drive on the sidewalks, park in a fountain
stagger around on the quad
blame all your heartaches on Mary Jane Cornsilk
blame all your troubles on God.

Meanwhile, the rest of us fight on in spite of
the specter of certain defeat
Suicide Stew is an immoral food
that most normal people won't eat.

So maybe it's too late, and maybe it's not,
the question is: What will you do?
Swallow your pride and show them you tried
...or swallow some Suicide Stew.

Poem #11--Strangebot-309

Strangebot-309


I.

Strangebot slew the lumberjack--at least that's what they say--
far up north in Plateau Town on an evening cold and gray.
Ill winds bear the half-mast flags over all the world this day;
Lightning justice soon must strike to take the tears away.
- Strangebot, Strangebot-309, they'll take your life away.


Lawman Brown from Plateau Town set out to seal his fate.
Strangebot, watching from on high, could feel the lawman's hate.
The lawman and his Noble Ten would hunt the robot down.
Strangebot, fear the day your path will cross with Lawman Brown's.
- Strangebot-309, you stand so proudly in your plight--
- What is ticking in your head behind those blinking lights?
- Deadly data turns your gears--your heart is black as night.

II.

The lawman and his Noble Ten began the search in Kanin--
the Nobles split in groups of two around the Gulf of Aynger.
Lawman Brown went town-to-town, seeking information--
he asked around, but all he found was setback and frustration.
- "Strangebot, I will lay you low", he vowed on Mt. Surrai;
- "You slew the mighty lumberjack and now you have to die."


Strangebot found the Noble Ten on Hurricana Pass;
the hunted seeks the hunters when his patience ends at last.
At first he followed, plotting moves and calculating death--
Electric dirges for his foes who draw their final breaths.
- Strangebot slew the lumberjack and now he strikes again--
- One by one he extirpates the fearless Noble Ten.
- Their screams refrained from mountain tops to the bottom of the sea;
- a thousand miles across the plains the birds could hear them plead.
- Strangebot neither laughed nor cried, he simply did the deed.


Strangebot knew his fortune was to meet with Lawman Brown;
a premonitory confrontation back in Plateau Town.
Dreams of carnage filled his head--decrepit rivers running red,
flags of war among the dead--his motors burned with dread.
- Strangebot-309, a confrontation nearer looms--
- your star-crossed fate seems headed toward the hand of certain doom
- and though your strength is mighty and your powers seem unreal
- you do not realize what you've done because you cannot feel.

III.

Night came down on Plateau Town and thunder filled the night
as Lawman Brown was heading home beneath the lunar light.
The lawman searched from east to west and never found his prey;
his hunt had yielded little as he searched from day to day.
- "I plan to hunt again tomorrow like I did today.
- I won't give in to sorrow, I don't dwell on yesterday.
- A lawman has a job to do, and this is what I say--
- Strangebot, Strangebot-309, I'll take your life away."

And as the lawman spoke these words the rain came pouring down;
the lightning sizzled miles above then crashed upon the ground;
and when it did the lawman saw him--fifty yards ahead--
there stood Strangebot-309 and this is what he said:
- "Death is blowing in the breeze,
- on the land and in the seas;
- and when it comes I'd rather stand
- than die upon my knees."


The lawman knew the time was high for virtue to prevail--
Vengeance for the Noble Ten, who fought to no avail;
Vengeance for the lumberjack--the lawman wouldn't fail.
Justice soon would be secured upon the deluged trail.
- The lawman drew his sabre as he ran toward his foe;
- Strangebot didn't move; he never let his feelings show.
- The lawman screamed, "This is for the lumberjack you slew!"
- ...and as the lightning smote the sky he ran the robot through.


Strangebot stood a moment more, then heavily sat down;
his wiring sparked and crackled as the rain fell all around.
He pulled the sabre from his chest and put it on the ground--
and as his life began to fade he spoke to Lawman Brown.
- "Aren't you going to ask me why I slew the lumberjack?
- Don't you wonder what he did that warranted attack?
- I once gave him a flower, but he crushed it in his hand;
- that is why he had to die. I hope you understand."


And for the first and final time, Strangebot softly wept;
the clouds shed silver tears of pain upon him as he slept.
Lawman Brown from Plateau Town could finally understand
that Strangebot couldn't comprehend the laws that bound the land.
- Strangebot lacked emotions, something humans aren't without,
- but he accepted life was short--he saw it running out.
- "Destiny has closed the circuit", pondered Lawman Brown.
- Wearily he turned and headed back to Plateau Town.

Poem #10--Pipe Dream

PIPE DREAM


I know this little place down on Third, right past the traffic
light constellation; every now and then, as the evening
wind blows, I drift to that sad destination.
I let down my guard in that shadowy place, feel the tears fill
my eyes as the smile leaves my face. At the Pipe Dream,
a platter of memories and a pitcher of tears is the thing.
Chew on some sorrow, self-pity's an art, cry in the pool room,
sob over darts--it's okay, everyone here feels the same.
Life is a luxury, living's a dream--survival is nothing
but blowing off steam in this dark room; the Pipe Dream's
a bitter success.
Lovely ladies I pass on the street; no handsome bravado, no
chance that I'll meet one and tell her, "You are so divine".
We've all got our problems of various sorts, my problem is
I have none to report--for to lose love you first must have
something to lose.
So I sit here by minute, from hours grow days, and the
years gone behind me are wrapped like a maze--I have nothing,
and no one to share it with.
I'm sitting in back at my table for one, I'm all alone in the
Pipe Dream. I'm waiting for someone to join me for drinks,
I'll be here a while (till the reaper announces last call
for the night).
Believe me, my dearies, my heart is in pieces, broken by
no one at all; defused and confused, my love lies unused--
on the Pipe Dream's hardwood floor.
Deaf from the silence, I twist in the wind like a corpse in a
storm on the sea; a maniac dwells in my personal Hell,
and the Pipe Dream is dark as a grave.
Time is so slow in this cavernous place; time moves so
quickly in life's little race. Time has been ticking inside
of my head--time will be ticking long after I'm dead.
The Pipe Dream won't close till I'm ready to leave, and when
I come back the next time I won't need a key-- 'cause
the Pipe Dream's a hangout for losers like me. It's
haunted, it's scary, but the drinks are all free.
As for this life, this is all I can say--
Love me the next time, like the wind loves the rain.
Love me for trying in spite of the pain.
Love me and hold me, no matter how long...
because down at the Pipe Dream they're singing my song.

Poem #9--The Spiral Staircase

THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE


Down the spiral staircase I did skip
to another dark, somnambulaic script
and questions faltered after me
faceless voices in agony
and I wish guilt gave death, not life, to dreams.
The moon was so fat and blinding bright
that it cast a false noon across the night
and the shining paths led everywhere
and even seemed to stretch into the air.
And questions faltered after me
like the drums that droned from the watching trees
...forgetting's the only thing to set you free.
Violins, like crickets, filled the night
crooning for the things that steal the light
and organ chords swooped batlike through the sky
trolling for a memory long gone by.
And questions faltered after me
a melee or a symphony
and I just want them all to let me be.
Our bodies lay together bathed in black
she had a fine-tip marker, wrote in blue upon my back
a column left and a column right
a dozen couples' names she writes
her name was paired with someone else
I looked and saw no mention of myself.
And questions faltered after me
words that I can't hear or see
but now I know I'm paired with jealousy.
Beneath the twisted bigtop of my mind
a different haunted house each night I thought I'd left behind
my pond has sharks, I see their fins
I walk a road that never ends
a bull that chases me for miles
the girl I follow through the darkened aisles.
And questions faltered after me
frantic like a hive of bees
I beg but they refuse to hear my pleas.
My stepdad died in 1991
but in my dreams he visits us and then he's got to run
and all the things I left unsaid
I want to tell him, but instead
I wake to face the fact that he is dead.
And questions faltered after me
nagging me incessantly
there's so much more I want my life to be.
Up the spiral staircase I did climb
the journey always ends this way and always just in time
for there is no place I can hide
from all the things I keep inside
the waking world conceals the truth
but sleep provides the burden and the proof.
And questions falter after me
forever more and endlessly
and I wish guilt gave death, not life, to dreams.