its only wednesday

they found a tea cup upturn,
and declared the cabinets clear.

a newborn believer sliced her breath
wide open with a knife previously used for

quality control. the lotus

soil spoiled a concrete coverup, called

in favors, gained when blooming bath salt

butchery.

and its only

wednesday.

hiding in the shadows

the truth is a flower

hiding in a jungle

scheduled for demolition

so that we may wipe our

asses clean.

our feet and mouths

hiding in the shadows

awaiting rues.

i thought it best not to tell you that i'm not the one, for now

for the wages of sin is life.
what doesn't kill you makes you

want more.

what can i say about the mistakes i've made,
but more of the same-

and i've crashed a bike more times than
i care to admit.

and most of the trees will blossom in the spring.

and the songs sung by empty lovers makes
more music than elephants could;

fighting over scraps from the journals of thieves.

and the plans made by sons of gods-or at least
they thought they were.

but what could i know? i went to public school,
where it's better to be lucky in choice

than to know the Truth.

good always comes with the bad, like breathing
the dust of sailors past; traveling into the known unknowns-

and faking bravery,

playing the game of constitution, liberty and
other, "what the fucks," that games hide

to be more enjoyable. because noone knows
how to make their own salads and be happy with

them-i'll keep my plans tight to the chest,
angled, so the light kisses them conscious.

so they'll grow up to be lawyers-
arguing the seas

arguing the depth of law

arguing temperatures seen through the eyes
of estranged boomers

who never learned the meaning of Spring.

move with me

move with me. move to me and i
will call your name. we can be like the power

lost in transistors, unaccounted. kiss my life
Judis lips,

and doom it falsified.
we'll become nameless but unto ourselves.

and time cards will forget us quickly.

believe in me. and i will be the lion
walking the perimeter of our lot.

feed me. to feed yourself. and we will learn to
lie when convenient, to a life that is to afraid

to make love; when love is for the making.

lets burry Easy behind our jokes and live between
the postcards we'lll send

to all that have laughed,

cried or cowered

in the site of Moirai.

i want to dance with you, make tacos on wednesdays
and never where pants on the days

stolen from reasonable substance.

with the bulk of our leisure spent forgotten,
lost between blinks and touches

that seem to last a thousand creation tales-

i could move to you, opened. allow me to
surface the hidden trappings of belief-

stowed away in a thing you've forgotten matters.

move with me. move to me and i will call your name.

NO PARKING: street cleaning from 9:00 am-11:00 am

it's monday, meaning an early rise for
me and the street cleaners-

spinning,
counter clockwise,

turning the leaves

to mulch

when discovered

liable. but i'm not a hugger.
or i wish i wasn't.

and, if the trees hold their breath in winter,

we certainly can. for as long as it takes
to burn up what was covered-

and then, i guess we'll

breathe the difference.

or breathe only on mondays, like my car does,
because its doing fine.

you own a strength inside of you

Ambivalent! screamed the risky night,
you tried to fill your bones;

with nothing more then cups of wine
to drowned the shattered stones.

close your eyes while the music plays,
and throw the bag to them;

to see the lucky winners eyes, you won't,
their broken, sotted, dim.

you expect to find what your looking for,
between a Pabst and Bullet-

or cater to him bathroom stall
snap a shot while you pull it.

beat them all to the punch line volley,
and they will forget your face.

cower like you've learned to do,
and drink to forget the space.

Or recognize the fading light,
that led our race thus far.

built bridges passed the broken rocks,
and channelled burning tar.

built time itself, to laugh it off,
and tapped the tree of thought.

you own a strength inside of you
and it's not the one he's bought.

your broken. ending lives for
pipe lines and houses in the hamtons.

and machines do the trading for you.

what else is my money good for,
but lobster dinners and power

you've grown between your legs
where your needle dick

used to be. And no one cares.

being normal

when the better part of sensitive, reverts
to sequence, like air spoiling fruit;

it's time to rearrange.

selling time to change is hard, like
lighting candles with scapegoats,

and praying for a flame.

i once lit seven cigarettes, at once,
and passing them to friends we shared

the moment.

I once half made love to a girl, who hid
her pain in the nook of her chest; closed

her eyes and wouldn't let me in.

I once cried at the site of an elephants foot,
dried and stuffed, resting in shag carpet

and covered in wax.

I wear shirts of justice, telling stories of
purity,

of letting go
of consequences that have no intension

of following through.

what does
that make me?

normal.