nevermind

too many birds flew over my capital city; i must surrender.

we never smell quite as good as we think we do,
and our voices never roll as sexily as we think,
but that's never stopped us.

we demand to choose our own finish lines,
we'll never rest until it is time to,
each of us saving one last long distance collect call
to finish dousing old flames
when we feel their heat too strongly from memory.
that's right,
a thousand mile ring
just to say,
"i hate you,
now pay for this call."
careful, now, not to say love by accident.

the morning finds our bodies washed up thirty miles west.
but truly this is no portrait of gloom i wish to paint,
only another strange picture;
the hope, you see, lies in the very act of creating it -
the light in all this rests in the fact
that i cared enough to speak at all.

true despair is silent.
i, conversely, cannot shut up.
never picture me writing without a smile.

nevermind.

motion

beelog

shhh...

machine

hook me up to a great contraption
let it move my hands and listen to my murmur
oil the pieces then leave us alone
we have great, great work to do
these pages will fill themselves
but only if i teach them how

crash

autumn has come
and caught us astray
unfamiliar leaves turning gold
or maybe that's just the fires
burning in every direction
maybe that's just the glow
telling me all is not peaceful
out over the cold horizon

will you miss your crash pad
when the snow has concealed it
will you forget where i stand
when the ice steals your footing
would you write letters home to me
if you knew where i lived
oh you will, and you will, and you wouldn't

thinking

...the true disciple of philosophy is likely to be misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is ever pursuing death and dying; and if this is true, why, having had the desire of death all his life long, should he repine at that which he has always been pursuing and desiring?

i'd argue we are all pursuing death and dying, whether it be via philosophy, addiction, or heedless ambition. some of us just fool ourselves into thinking it's in pursuit of a full and rich life, but what is a full and rich life but a comfortable death without regrets?

revive

i often wonder,
when you are the last one left,
and rebuilding is not an option,
how will you rule your world of dead?

with an iron fist,
crushing all resistance?
or will you be merciful,
easing the plight of the poor?

the dead look to you for guidance

feedback

ooooh, baby,
there are fires we can never walk through together,
and there'll never be an end we can agree on completely;
but the beginnings are just so lovely,
and i've got an itchy trigger finger
when it comes to the reset button.

and oooo, darlin',
i can't promise not to climb so high you cannot follow,
and won't beg a vow not to dig so deep i'm left behind,
we both have demons to run from
but it's nice to be the angel on the shoulder
of the angel on your shoulder.

together we will tend strange wounds