you face off the giraffe spotted midnight
to end that soft day
no tulip drenched see ya tomorrow will stave off the night to forget the ride home.

5/7/02
Hanging onto sleeping hands
while happy insects freely fly
outside the night takes the morning
with complete vacation star surprise

once you’ve exhausted your family
and your friends have all paired off
you sit still without dreaming
without giving a shit
and then maybe a lucky charm
finds you in the street
and then perhaps youre on your way
to another drummers beat.

we have beaten this careening back yard into quiet obedience
shaken all the trees
and now’s the time to start all over
from kitchen basement sage
to screen door dining room baby.

You have to wonder what older people are thinking
as they watch us little idiots floundering about.
I scream “Just tell me!”
and they try to put their past mistakes
into constructive words.
I know that, I say,
I wouldn’t do THAT
I say
as I speed across my middle years.

Traffic doesnt think about road kill
raccoons don’t think about garbage
I think about you
and wonder what to do.

effectively, i have obliterated my past
and at two in the morning, it awakens

jesterly the man dances with a wrinkle-eyed smile
and as he faces off the rain
his dirty clothes begin to shine.

I wish I was a writer
would write all night long
and dream in beds of lavendar
bout fingernail love songs.

But I’m not a writer
and perhaps never shall be
i’ll drink to take up the space
that writing wants to be.

do you want to tell me now
what you think will be
you’d be a fool
because i know
how wrong such thoughts
can be.

please don’t let me break these plates
don’t let the glasses fall

how can some nights be so tireless
so full of milk rum tea
sleepiness is hiding on the other side of the road
why doesnt it like me?

Hattened towards a forgettful time of clowny old men and happy blue hours filled with french dreams, how far have we travelled tonight and where shall we go tomorrow? Every cream puff cloud filled with silvery smoke linings of disasters that leave you crippled and begging on the floor of polyester nightmared zebra skinned fashion magazines say the past can be cruel.

The past can be your friend in the dead of a cold spring two fifteen AM with work in the morning but no sleep in sight. Hang on St. Christopher. Hang on Captain Kangaroo. I’m comin home.

5/8/02
Everything changes
and you knew the tree had to fall
how can a flowering bee fly
into the brained golden green honey
of a hard edged you-should-have-never neighborhood?
When does experience wake up and take you home?

picking the rottenest apple
and dare yourself to eat.
then find it’s not so sour
but still impossible to eat.

faking reality for now
you sit still enough to snore softly through your nose
i get up and walk out
your heroin dreams play buttery death
to my restless leg syndrome

5/11/02
cramming visions past hands together
spiny fences of old painted iron sticks
walking past a rainy madman’s yard on a sunday night.

keeping out of the streamy lined road for cars in the rain
it’s still raining
and the lake is holding our ears down for the wind to tackle...

we push eachother back and forth
as the shiny leaves on the wet flowering trees
wave and shake and smile.

what isn’t in the foggy morning grass
that isn’t in your eyes?
where does my favorite song go
when i can’t hear?

Corn Tigers crying with venom
messed up hair all the time
fake clock stopped days ago
died at two.

going from one one to one two
and never back again...

5/18/02
Forgot to take happy hour daisy breaks
soaked to the skin and borrowing slickers
for what cloudy lining do we stand on this corner?

It’s crazy when you look like a spare bedroom
and smell like Bob Dylan must have
at twenty.

Blisters like tiny atomic era martini bubbles
creep like the mid-1960’s
capturing ideas like scratchy hands

giraffy june can see yesterday
like it wasnt may’s today.

the zoo keeps the animals well fed
but still trapped
no matter how humane they try to make cages seem
everyone can hear the crying
not everyone wants to see it though
and someday the animals will all go to sleep
an dream of an unfiltered sun
and the people will lie awake at night
and watch the moon through dark curtains
as the black mark of selfishness
scrapes a scar of regret like a torture
across the glow
of fat meat-fed cheeks.

fruit lies rotten on linoleum floors
with dirty mongrel chewn cabinets
standing watching nearby, some from overhead
I am in the corner
and there’s some kind of bug flying up high
by the twinkling ceiling light bulb
doesnt even know i’m there
I can tell!
through my mind, I inform him that I could capture him
any time i wanted to
and pull his little wings
til his little eyes would bulge in pain
but that i would never do that
because I’m not sick
and if he’d just come down and sit by me
i’d be nice as rotting apple pie.

Painting hats on with glue
never remembering
that you already have a hat
glued in place
now the sun will never know your bare head
again.

carefully sifting the frozen glass shards
of what was yesterday?
Secretly watching someone elses life
and feeling like you’ve never lived before
just smiling all the time
>you face off the giraffe spotted midnight
to end that soft day
no tulip drenched see ya tomorrow will stave off the night to forget the ride home.

5/7/02
Hanging onto sleeping hands
while happy insects freely fly
outside the night takes the morning
with complete vacation star surprise

once you’ve exhausted your family
and your friends have all paired off
you sit still without dreaming
without giving a shit
and then maybe a lucky charm
finds you in the street
and then perhaps youre on your way
to another drummers beat.

we have beaten this careening back yard into quiet obedience
shaken all the trees
and now’s the time to start all over
from kitchen basement sage
to screen door dining room baby.

You have to wonder what older people are thinking
as they watch us little idiots floundering about.
I scream “Just tell me!”
and they try to put their past mistakes
into constructive words.
I know that, I say,
I wouldn’t do THAT
I say
as I speed across my middle years.

Traffic doesnt think about road kill
raccoons don’t think about garbage
I think about you
and wonder what to do.

effectively, i have obliterated my past
and at two in the morning, it awakens

jesterly the man dances with a wrinkle-eyed smile
and as he faces off the rain
his dirty clothes begin to shine.

I wish I was a writer
would write all night long
and dream in beds of lavendar
bout fingernail love songs.

But I’m not a writer
and perhaps never shall be
i’ll drink to take up the space
that writing wants to be.

do you want to tell me now
what you think will be
you’d be a fool
because i know
how wrong such thoughts
can be.

please don’t let me break these plates
don’t let the glasses fall

how can some nights be so tireless
so full of milk rum tea
sleepiness is hiding on the other side of the road
why doesnt it like me?

Hattened towards a forgettful time of clowny old men and happy blue hours filled with french dreams, how far have we travelled tonight and where shall we go tomorrow? Every cream puff cloud filled with silvery smoke linings of disasters that leave you crippled and begging on the floor of polyester nightmared zebra skinned fashion magazines say the past can be cruel.

The past can be your friend in the dead of a cold spring two fifteen AM with work in the morning but no sleep in sight. Hang on St. Christopher. Hang on Captain Kangaroo. I’m comin home.

5/8/02
Everything changes
and you knew the tree had to fall
how can a flowering bee fly
into the brained golden green honey
of a hard edged you-should-have-never neighborhood?
When does experience wake up and take you home?


picking the rottenest apple
and dare yourself to eat.
then find it’s not so sour
but still impossible to eat.

faking reality for now
you sit still enough to snore softly through your nose
i get up and walk out
your heroin dreams play buttery death
to my restless leg syndrome

5/11/02
cramming visions past hands together
spiny fences of old painted iron sticks
walking past a rainy madman’s yard on a sunday night.

keeping out of the streamy lined road for cars in the rain
it’s still raining
and the lake is holding our ears down for the wind to tackle...

we push eachother back and forth
as the shiny leaves on the wet flowering trees
wave and shake and smile.


what isn’t in the foggy morning grass
that isn’t in your eyes?
where does my favorite song go
when i can’t hear?



Corn Tigers crying with venom
messed up hair all the time
fake clock stopped days ago
died at two.

going from one one to one two
and never back again...

5/18/02
Forgot to take happy hour daisy breaks
soaked to the skin and borrowing slickers
for what cloudy lining do we stand on this corner?

It’s crazy when you look like a spare bedroom
and smell like Bob Dylan must have
at twenty.

Blisters like tiny atomic era martini bubbles
creep like the mid-1960’s
capturing ideas like scratchy hands

giraffy june can see yesterday
like it wasnt may’s today.

the zoo keeps the animals well fed
but still trapped
no matter how humane they try to make cages seem
everyone can hear the crying
not everyone wants to see it though
and someday the animals will all go to sleep
an dream of an unfiltered sun
and the people will lie awake at night
and watch the moon through dark curtains
as the black mark of selfishness
scrapes a scar of regret like a torture
across the glow
of fat meat-fed cheeks.

fruit lies rotten on linoleum floors
with dirty mongrel chewn cabinets
standing watching nearby, some from overhead
I am in the corner
and there’s some kind of bug flying up high
by the twinkling ceiling light bulb
doesnt even know i’m there
I can tell!
through my mind, I inform him that I could capture him
any time i wanted to
and pull his little wings
til his little eyes would bulge in pain
but that i would never do that
because I’m not sick
and if he’d just come down and sit by me
i’d be nice as rotting apple pie.


Painting hats on with glue
never remembering
that you already have a hat
glued in place
now the sun will never know your bare head
again.

carefully sifting the frozen glass shards
of what was yesterday?
Secretly watching someone elses life
and feeling like you’ve never lived before
just smiling all the time

how do you hold onto a light bulb
when it’s been on for so long?

How does the grass lie
without ever fibbing jealously?

What does God think
of Infinity?

Does Happy Hour
ever start at twelve?

i guess i don’t want anyone to
to appreciate me
for what i appreciate in myself.
but that still claws at my hands at night
when i wake up at four
or five
or three.
this heavy lid
is not a gate
it’s a doorway
with a lock.


I fell into the lake
as I drove off to work on a saturday
mid morn like a sunday blown off
fell into the lake’s sky reflection
like falling into a diner
on an early night of nothing to do but talk

felt crazy awake again
for once
couldn’t dream away work though
and that saturday died it’s natural death
but not without securing the fact
that at least in part
it would never be forgotten.

Once crazy starts
and willingly
becomes beautiful
the day before’s sacred butterfly of careful
flies down your throat and sticks and dies
you cough once and then twice
hard
jeez what the hell was that?!
that’s it
crazy’s beautiful.

how do you hold onto a light bulb
when it’s been on for so long?

How does the grass lie
without ever fibbing jealously?

What does God think
of Infinity?

Does Happy Hour
ever start at twelve?

i guess i don’t want anyone to
to appreciate me
for what i appreciate in myself.
but that still claws at my hands at night
when i wake up at four
or five
or three.
this heavy lid
is not a gate
it’s a doorway
with a lock.

I fell into the lake
as I drove off to work on a saturday
mid morn like a sunday blown off
fell into the lake’s sky reflection
like falling into a diner
on an early night of nothing to do but talk

felt crazy awake again
for once
couldn’t dream away work though
and that saturday died it’s natural death
but not without securing the fact
that at least in part
it would never be forgotten.

Once crazy starts
and willingly
becomes beautiful
the day before’s sacred butterfly of careful
flies down your throat and sticks and dies
you cough once and then twice
hard
jeez what the hell was that?!
that’s it
crazy’s beautiful.