If you’re going to read me
Don’t read me with a grain of salt
Read me with the whole damn salt shaker—
Trust me, it’s for the best.
WARNING: something I should have mentioned earlier
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Chaos Theory
If we can accept ourselves
in life, and that in this life
we’re living, the right way
and the wrong way, mostly
aren’t ever in alignment
with our true nature of self,
rather it’s often
sideways we must go, sideways
like the pebble in the stream
knows only one direction,
and that chaos when reversed
reveals itself as precisely
the way it ought to be.
Hot and Wild
I don’t need a fan
or a fawn, I need a fire—
Hot and Wild—black as coal,
as clean as a diamond
dazzling
in the mud of my soul.
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.
Streams
Whatever stream it gets to you by,
it’s still a stream—leading nowhere
to some, somewhere to many, and
to others it’s—already there.
You just have to live.
Being sober’s
as overrated
as being drunk—
nobody wins.
You just have to live.
Individual Sadness.
We each have our own
individual sadness.
Like a fine wine.
I drink it down.
Some tastes better
than others.
I drink hers down.
Then open another bottle.
We much prefer red over white.
Dry over sweet.
Though there have been those who’ve poured
and those who’ve carelessly spilled.
But none like this.
None so direct.
Covered in a deep, warm red
I much prefer her careful aim
as she throws the Cab into my face –
Betty Davis style.
