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The way it was and
the way I saw it well
neither really aligned,
which is why I guess
perhaps, I suppose
I’ve made it this far driving
Southbound towards Tijuana
watching my dreams fade
in the rear view mirror
knowing now the utopia I sought
was never bound to be orthodox
or American, or not but
foreign enough to appear genuine,
parked by the halogen glow
of another lone motel, stale air
and stained sheets of a
dystopian relevance
that makes this all seem o.k.
It’s funny really
how I’d been thinking
the exact same thing.
And how everything’s different.
And how nothing’s changed.
And how things are fine enough
without throwing a wrench in the works.
We’re all just kind of nowhere, aren’t we?
When we convince ourselves we’re not,
that we’re somewhere worth being?
Then like flypaper pulled apart
time disconnects from space
and we’re left stuck
sticking to the things we swore we’d part.
And just like that
we’re nowhere again,
left waiting to forget how good it felt
to be somewhere.
For every peace I’ve lost
I picked up another
And another, then another
Till I could hardly tell
The difference between
Myself, them—or the other.
You might just find yourself
Very much alone and
Without anyone to call so
If you’re unwilling to change then
I just want you to know that
No matter what I’ll be there
Waiting with myself
Waiting for your company
I gave you yours
You gave me mine
The sewer’s innocent
We walked for miles
Time to time
In soles that didn’t fit
Our arms they fell like chandelier
The climax of a play
Then died like Dylan Thomas done
We knew no other way
It’s senseless to sense this
phase from May to June.
These fences stand defenseless
like guards on duty do.
In truth there are no changes
or phases of the moon,
it’s just a formed perspective,
outsiders share the view.
I won’t be getting better
Though I’ll play it like I do
You know I’m not that clever
Or else then I’d be you—
Whenever it feels
I’ve nothing left,
I’ve always got a little.
And a pocket full of salt—
The romantic in me
Wants to kick the charade
And love you less like Shakespeare—
But it’s this Portrait
Of Dorian Gray that’s damned me Wilde
I don’t dare
Words Of An Average White Male 