Join the party

When people are singing

laughing and dancing,

join the party, because

not every wallflower has it’s perks,

and growth, well

that’s up to you.

A kick in the head!

I will always be curious

and allergic to cats.

Ain’t that a kick in the head!

Simon’s water.

Even those tiny violinist’s know when to stop playing

and when to start singing the bridge over Simon’s water.

Topanga Beach September 5 2020 Day Dreaming

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

Taylor calls for me from those stairs in Italy

I’m walking by a pay phone on the beach

Reminders from the East and a girl named Cicily

Talk me into circles out of reach

Send letters won’t you son to remind us what you’ve done

Don’t be a stranger call us once a week?

I buried what was left of my heartache in a trench

On that lonesome stretch of sand I was released

Now Bret he reads the lines in the background of my mind

There’s no one in this room to hear me sing

When journaling in thought feels like a raven’s claw

It’s Taylor who sits calmly next to me

The grass rests underneath her cheekbone by the sea

While chemicals channel flowing dreams

It’s 8am in August while I pour the gin and tonic

Listening to the ocean’s cresting wave

The cobblestone in Rome for which once walked me home

Now Cicily I hear her gently speak

There’s no such thing as time, if you believe that then that’s fine

But darling I’ve got no tears left to weep

I did my best to please the priest listening to me

Still Lucas rest assured me of my grief

I didn’t have to sail to France to find a girl to dance

I just went out every night for one last drink

So now as Taylor calls to me from those stairs in Italy

I pick her up once more from memory

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

I pick her up once more from memory

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

Through the air vents of my room

I’ve known a many artist in my day, say

Today old friend you come to mind

And how for a short time, your voice divine

Scratchy and old, though, you and I know

Age is just a number and it’s you who’d show

Me this: Dear, Gavin Heron Vante

Who needed a place to rest his weary head

For the night I offered you some bread

Where that night you had said, Ah man!

I haven’t seen this show in years, mind if I watch

Married with Children, Amen! Amen!

Then later I’d record you playing all the chords

I always had wish I could, watching your fingers

Slide and swoop through Sloop John B

I tried to sing harmonies but who was I kidding

Aloof in my eagerness to know everything and all

You had to offer and more, more, more I cried

Singing, drinking in the night like two old friends

Because we were in fact just two ageless nobodies

In the effortless night of somebodies

Giving me your time, cradling my wine

Looking through old photo’s now

I can still feel your spirit sing softly through

The air vents of my room

The next morning of course, saying farewell

Dropping you at Austin’s Coffee

Collecting your bicycle and taking the trash out for a buck

Needing my fix of early morning talkie

That I’m sure no one ever really gave a hoot about —

Now I hear you’re out of the Coma

That took you too soon like a phantom in the night

You were right when you told me

To take it easy man, oh man, Gavin Heron Van

Where there is no plan there in lies the plan

I now know the meaning of that age old saying

Those were the days, good sir, I give my praise

Sincerely,

Dave

P.S. There’s a place for you here, always

all that now surrounds me

This morning I am open

watching a flower bloom,

to all that now surrounds me

as nature is my womb,

born into the sunlight

I’ve one more string to tune,

as all that now surrounds me

my song sung unto you.

Artistic illusions

Make my bed

Spread the sheets

They are white

They are clean

There’s a nestle of bird

Who sing softly and sweet

There are bills

To be paid

Overdrafts

To be made

But I’m conscious today

Knowing that rot can wait

I have given enough love, I’ve wrestled with the thought

Spared quarters like rain to a cynical saint

I’ve got no time to spare

All this death in the air

Has me feeling quite good, transcendentally great

Forgive me but truth is

Artistic illusions

I’ve no cross to bear climbing trees and it’s clear

That I

start to see past

The sun and moon

The sky opens up

There’s nothing left to do

This closure’s my mantra to you.

Wash my face

Clean my teeth

Knock on wood

Once a week

There’s a pub inn Philly

Where I dug my own grave

Comb the depths

Of your hair

Try and act

Like you care

I’ve been watching your play

Mixing tonic with pain

You have given enough love, so much work to be done

Put your suitcases down, for a while and remain

Like a park bench in autumn

Or leaves that have fallen

I’ve got proof there’s a cure, you just gotta find yours

Forgive me but truth is

Artistic illusions

It’s a tale to be told, when you’re young and your bold

And now I’ve

Got to go back

To the way I was before

And now you’ve

Got to go back

To the way you were before

This closure’s my mantra to you.

all prose burn in heaven

I get the soul’s impression

that all prose burn in heaven.

Each homeward bound confession

chased tales back and forth.

Bipolar dreams depression

that yearn for common ground,

a fingers length extension

too tame to make a sound.

If all dogs go to heaven

who’s there left to be found?

A mother’s womb that’s kickin

an unborn Ezra Pound.

It’s with this last expression

your love comes to me now.

Released to death’s progression

a compass pointing north.

that old dog bark

A sweet chorus of birds

lingers in the air, as

the morning wains on

expectantly

that old dog bark

rings heavy on my mind.

Pulling the covers overhead, thinking

the day can—and most certainly will—wait for me today.

My feet are sore

and my heart is silent.

I’ll stand when I’m ready, till then

I’ll snore along till noon.