I’m Your Huckleberry

If you told me then

We’d now be coughing blood

You know Doc, I wouldn’t change a thing.

A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020

A needle in hay

How can a man

give so much of himself

to the past, and so little

to his future?

The answer

can be found as quickly

as a needle in hay.

It’s a needle

that always draws a little blood.

2011 Wearing glasses? In a diner, probably.

skull and crossbones

At the end of the race

make em say:

to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much

this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds

what ears are these they’ve heard enough

and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!

His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough

even nail beds torn up from climbing so much

lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood

it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!

To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?

His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.

What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone

he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!

Pull another Death card

I have no business

I’ve made that quite clear

But I’m still wondering

What lies beyond here

This bottle I’ve found

Is filled to the brim

With messages signed

In blood red penmanship.

The city wakes up

I open my eyes

These walls are filled with

Unsealed goodbyes

This letter I’ve got

Return to sender

I’ve not the courage

Or will to send her.

It’s 3 o’clock in

The fucking morning

These panic headaches

Come without warning

Now I just want sleep

No sleeping beauty

So when I lie down

Please keep my casket closed.

No kiss

Is worth

A thousand words

I know

So spare me the ritual.

This blind ambition

That I know so well

It’s superstition

Like Heaven and Hell

Now where’s that locket

The one I gave her

It felt so pure then

Like the last savior.

No one is perfect

I’ve made that quite clear

Still all this nonsense

Makes sense in the mirror

And when I throw up

It’s all of my fears

God had to go up

For us to burn down here.

So take this end and

Tie it to that beam

I weigh less than him

So it should hold me

And when I wake up

This’ll all be over

Pull another Death card

Rebirth and closure.

Nobody

Gets out

Of this place

Alive

Just promise me you’ll try.

sex, love, and war

if it’s all

sex, love

and war

then where we stand

is better, for

what it’s worth

the things we carry

lies, lore

even drugs, barely

rock and roll

our sundry hearts

whose spirits lurk

dear Joan of Arc,

if it’s all

been heaven sent

then hear me now

as I repent,

tied together

at the stake

a Sid and Nancy

sealed fate,

but dare I ask

what you desire

if and when

they light my fire,

come on, come on

make it quick

like silver I’ve

two dimes that’s it,

nothing more

and nothing less

dear lizard king

feel this

music sung

inside my heart

sailing on

a Noah’s Ark,

and in a cage

twisted, tangled

two minds race

they jingle jangle,

pulling teeth

and gumming glass

spitting blood

and skipping mass

for if it’s all

sex, love

and war

then know the reasons

worth fighting for

In cold blood.

It’s people
who feel invisible
that do
the most heinous things,
and nobody
ever seems to know
who, what, where, when
or why such things could be done,
until after the fact
when there’s enough
evidence
to write a book in cold blood.

Destroying my art one piece at a time

I tell myself stories
and create word pairings

like a master work of Rembrandt
picture perfect in a frame

but no matter my intention
good will is always marred

by Van Gogh’s lack of detail
or is it his mastery of the craft?

Destroying my art
one piece at a time.

Your finest work was not in oil,
it was in your blood.

Nothing ever is that cut and dry.

Take me with a grain of salt

then throw me over your shoulder.

It’s the only way I know,

self taught and still figuring it out.

Just a pinch is enough though.

Nobody wants high blood pressure.

Oh, but we’re all so practiced

in the art of innocence.

I hear you when you give thanks

but that doesn’t mean I believe you.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t too.

Nothing ever is that cut and dry.

Is it?

Now, this is the part

where you throw me over your shoulder.