What those lost do not say.

Remember me tomorrow

For who I was today

And understand my sorrow

Was never yours to save —

For everyone has reasons

The grieving call them brave

Who fought too many seasons

To end up in this grave

Still don’t mistake this sorrow

I’ve borrowed mine today —

Yet listen for tomorrow

What those lost do not say.

Call me crystal and I’ll make this clear

Call me crystal and I’ll make this clear

The world’s your oyster, won’t you be a dear?

Remember us, when you’re famous

Such a dangerous manifestation

Bite the bullet trigger happy kid

They said break a leg behind closed eyelids

Opportunity, don’t blow it

You’re a shooting star, now show it

Call me Ishmael cause I am drowning quick

Wailing never got you through the thick

What more could we ask for?

Through closed doors

Another kid’s born in the grave

By the third day he’ll be saved

Another wick is burnt too late

Just one more spirit and you’ll feel great

Wipe the Chalice, next in line to drink

Every word has meaning, child

who’s never’d time to blink

a loneliness grave.

I spared him a quarter

alone where he stood

next to the Madonna

as if she’d do him good.

He gave me a blessing

gentle and aware

the wind it was violent

messing both our hair.

While Girl Scouts are selling

cookies for the troop

a week ago maybe

someone died on that stoop.

But don’t tell their mothers

as if they would care

no you don’t get the badge unless

you’ve sold your soul there.

My eyes they grow weary

still I can’t look away

at the hummingbird dancing

a loneliness grave,

still I’ve got this feeling

that there’s no escape

am I ok to drive? I guess or else just look away.

Am I ok to drive? I guess, if not well either way.

At the cafe I buy coffee

either iced or cold brew

the barista he tells me

nothing’s ever new.

But still I ask questions

like how do you do

and she recalls my name

it’s the least she could do.

I don’t mean to sound faithless

I’ve just seen enough kicks

see the old man he died, well

some things never make sense.

It’s slight of the hand, it’s

a scam with three cups

you follow the ball then

it’s gone where it was.

My eyes they burn red with

the heat of the day

it’s winter in Burbank

what more can I say,

still I’ve got this feeling

that there’s no escape

am I ok to drive? I guess or else just look away.

Am I ok to drive? I guess, if not well either way.

Now I take to the bar, where

Happy Hour’s till 6

Scott the tender he knows me

pours my whiskey then gin.

What’s the good word? Pal, tell me

do you think that you could

spare me knowledge like change would

do me some type of good.

I don’t stay past the hour

happiness never lasts

after shame there comes flowers

then of course there’s the past.

You’re a good guy he tells me

see the pain never lasts

I assure you it does, Scott

he just nods then he laughs.

See there’s beauty in living

it’s just hidden by stars

who illuminate sidewalks

like two subtle hearts,

still I’ve got this feeling

that there’s no escape

it’s an obvious cycle, one I’ll never break.(?)

Am I ok to drive? I guess or else just look away.

Am I ok to drive? I guess, if not well either way.

backward or forward

However many backward steps

you take today

tomorrow

take that many steps further along the way

because not everyday is a good one

nor is everyday bad, you see

I knew a man no different than

any other shapeless face

who kept on stepping backward

day after day after week after year

until he’d completely lost his way

you see, an inch becomes a foot

and a foot becomes a mile

it’s backward or forward that separates

the man from the grave.

gods walk among us

the living
make the dead
immortal

gods
are born
this way

where in
life, they
were men

in death
their spirit, like
shadow puppets

used
by many hands
to spread the word,

grave men and grave women
only hear in death
because they can’t

listen in life
unable to fathom, that
gods walk among us

all the time.

That Kurt Cobain.

He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.

And another on the trigger of a shotgun.

Depending on who you believe,

a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.

A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.

It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.

Through sentiment.

Remembrance.

And praise.

Shedding it’s form.

It becomes an idol.

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.

And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?

He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.

A sly dog, indeed.