| Sleeping late, I
|
| Hear the sad horns of labor trucks sigh
|
| My neighbor walks by
|
| High heels click dry
|
| Like half-a-proud
|
| Horse down Brook
|
| I hear somebody’s
|
| Babbling I mistook
|
| For a cavalry
|
| Whispering «victory»
|
| To the sparks in their kindling
|
| But all their green woods
|
| Wet, and unmet as of yet
|
| By the gases of flame
|
| Pressing against the pending
|
| Physics of my passed down last
|
| Name. |
| Living in the tear between
|
| Two spaces, condemned;
|
| In one of the many places
|
| You’re not, I am
|
| Hiding from my friends
|
| In the bathroom at 'ThriftTown'
|
| To write this tune down
|
| Today after lunch
|
| I got sick and blew chunks
|
| All over my new shoes
|
| In a lot behind 'Whole Foods'
|
| This is a new kind of blues
|
| And what about losing
|
| Limb or loved one in a duel
|
| Dissatisfies you of seems just?
|
| As a kid I did not shit my pants much;
|
| Why start now with this stuff?
|
| And I do not bluff, second caller
|
| Gets bit by a dog or Jeff Dahmer
|
| Kisses or stitches?
|
| No mitt for these pitches
|
| Lone Pone one
|
| Master of the cheap pun
|
| If I’m not raw
|
| I’m just a bit underdone
|
| But I’d be O.K., cool as a rail
|
| If they’d just let us have
|
| Health food in hell
|
| Good heaven’s background radiation
|
| And the black arts of waiting
|
| Not the same since I switched my hair-
|
| Part and started shaving. |
| Got hexed--
|
| My hidden hair-gone corners
|
| Oh, I’ll never be a joiner
|
| Life long local foreigner, I
|
| Raw-lung, homegrown fake
|
| In coed naked choir;
|
| Second tenor, highest rise
|
| Blessed clever compromister
|
| I’ll be proudly mouthing
|
| 'watermelon' every song
|
| I put the phone to my ear
|
| But all I hear’s a dial tone
|
| Will they map my skull
|
| And wrap my bones
|
| When my wig is gone? |
| Hmmm?
|
| I’ll go unknown
|
| By torpedo or Crohn’s
|
| Only those evil live to see
|
| Their own likeness in stone
|
| My brother said that |