How to begin?
At times it seems endless. This lofty position I’ve so glibly accepted as ear to the world; therapist to the minions; and sounding board for the masses. If I thought for one precious second that all this time spent nodding my head, and lending poor advice were being wasted, I’d say, “Enough is enough already!” But au contraire mon amis. I foolishly set forth into the uncharted regions of mans love-clouded mind. I wantonly excoriate my dearest friends for mistakes I haven’t even made yet. I laud the virtues of patience and tolerance, when in fact; I am the largest transgressor of both. Yet the words continue to flow. The love-lorn continue to stagger up to my doorstep, laying their tangled lives at my feet, expecting me, of all people, to put things right for them once again. But who will lend an ear to my darkest anxieties when they finally become unbearable? When will my time come, or will I always and forever be the receptacle of other people’s sordid unravelings? I see not the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I do see where this is all going…
The Big One Regular Kid 1992
Monday, January 25, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Untitled
Floozies
With cavities
Live in the trees
And the breeze
Blows the hair from their eyes
And they become
Bowling balls
In the halls
Echo ancient robots in the hallowed caverns of the Earth
circa 1984
With cavities
Live in the trees
And the breeze
Blows the hair from their eyes
And they become
Bowling balls
In the halls
Echo ancient robots in the hallowed caverns of the Earth
circa 1984
Sunday, January 17, 2010
THE THESPIAN AND THE MOONGAZER
I looked for her
through years of
moon-gazing,
knowing
we both discerned that satellite.
She clothed herself
as actors do,
and she sang
the angel octaves-
spinning under spotlight
My world was featureless-
a tectonic slumber
of silent plates;
ashen ridges on
cross-stitched faces.
Through the grist mill
of a brick skyline;
she laced under cars.
She blossomed through windows-
a billion year body.
Captured to your script,
I buried myself
under her Mediterranean eyes,
and the hunger of
the coliseum.
through years of
moon-gazing,
knowing
we both discerned that satellite.
She clothed herself
as actors do,
and she sang
the angel octaves-
spinning under spotlight
My world was featureless-
a tectonic slumber
of silent plates;
ashen ridges on
cross-stitched faces.
Through the grist mill
of a brick skyline;
she laced under cars.
She blossomed through windows-
a billion year body.
Captured to your script,
I buried myself
under her Mediterranean eyes,
and the hunger of
the coliseum.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
John Wesley Harding
In the smoke den of the 90's
John Wesley Harding takes the swing to the thing
and exultantly proclaims
it's the world and all it's problems
the world
John Wesley Harding takes the swing to the thing
and exultantly proclaims
it's the world and all it's problems
the world
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