Staring at the out of focus mirror, at the baby smooth skull, I smile. There is a safety razor on the edge of the bath, and I know the blades will be counted later.
I’m not allowed to keep the extras, not since they found out that I’d found out and tried to make a quick and almost painless blink but since then I’d acceded to their wishes,
drank the Kool-Aid and lain in the hum hum hum machines.
They do give me a little bit of privacy.
The soap lather is slick, squishy, making quick work of my final depilation.
If I make myself bald now, then I will be bald all over.
Head
Eyebrows
Arms
Legs
Toes
Groin
I can’t reach my back, but I think that’s pretty hairless anyway.
I look like one of those very naked mannequins, hairless and sexless.
I won. Not them.
I tricked them, tricked them all, not waiting for the hum hum hum machine to take my hair, take my sex, take my me.
I’m going to use a whole bottle of lotion now and make me feel pretty.
And then I’ll count the stitches on my ribs.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Quiet is Underwhelming
We’re too silent now. I know, we promised silence, misguided thing that silence is, thinking silence is the same as comfort, that silence is the absence of strife.
It’s not. It’s just silence.
Except when it is another symptom of yet another cause, another reaction to another unknown.
Walls, gates, moats,
Wagons, caves, motes.
We build so much, wanting something different.
We know what we don’t want, everyone knows what they don’t want-or they think they do.
That is the easy part, knowing what you don’t want: vanilla ice cream, brussels sprouts, sardines.
But doing something you don’t do so you’ll get something you don’t have...
It’s time.
I’m taking down walls, storming gates, crossing moats.
I’m slipping between wagons, searching caves, removing motes from our eyes.
From both our eyes.
Put away stubborn, pride, inflexible. Put away fear.
How could I think less of you when I am so so far from the shadow of perfect myself, staring at perfect’s ass, so far behind I am in a lapped field on the verge of being pulled?
Beat down stubborn, pride, inflexible-more you does not mean less me.
The fallout and backlash anticipated, those are just shards from another goblet thrown by someone else, not me, never by me, and missed by the vacuum cleaner.
I’ve been there.
So take me to the common ground and we will open out mouths, let words pour out, smudge the chalk art in the driveway and the lines in the sand, cross the boundaries leading to a new place where no one cowers in the closet behind the winter coats and worn out sneakers and crumpled scraps of gift wrap.
We’ll go there, speak untested, unafraid and be silent together later.
It’s not. It’s just silence.
Except when it is another symptom of yet another cause, another reaction to another unknown.
Walls, gates, moats,
Wagons, caves, motes.
We build so much, wanting something different.
We know what we don’t want, everyone knows what they don’t want-or they think they do.
That is the easy part, knowing what you don’t want: vanilla ice cream, brussels sprouts, sardines.
But doing something you don’t do so you’ll get something you don’t have...
It’s time.
I’m taking down walls, storming gates, crossing moats.
I’m slipping between wagons, searching caves, removing motes from our eyes.
From both our eyes.
Put away stubborn, pride, inflexible. Put away fear.
How could I think less of you when I am so so far from the shadow of perfect myself, staring at perfect’s ass, so far behind I am in a lapped field on the verge of being pulled?
Beat down stubborn, pride, inflexible-more you does not mean less me.
The fallout and backlash anticipated, those are just shards from another goblet thrown by someone else, not me, never by me, and missed by the vacuum cleaner.
I’ve been there.
So take me to the common ground and we will open out mouths, let words pour out, smudge the chalk art in the driveway and the lines in the sand, cross the boundaries leading to a new place where no one cowers in the closet behind the winter coats and worn out sneakers and crumpled scraps of gift wrap.
We’ll go there, speak untested, unafraid and be silent together later.
Unemployment
I am a feral dog fighting over rancid meat.
Scared, wild, hungry.
Sniffing, snarling. Stay away!
All slowly dying.
You think we’re human?
No, poverty took us down
to woods alleys graves.
Invisible now,
feel their cold breath on your neck,
hear their echo howls.
Scared, wild, hungry.
Sniffing, snarling. Stay away!
All slowly dying.
You think we’re human?
No, poverty took us down
to woods alleys graves.
Invisible now,
feel their cold breath on your neck,
hear their echo howls.
Goodbye Girl
He stood over the shredder, feeding it, watching it gulp his former life, their life and spit out confetti destined to soak up bird poop and urine in the bottom of a large cage.
It gulped so hard it pulled the papers from his hand, reminding him of the plant in "little Shop of Horrors’, of quicksand, of the days she nursed their younglings, their frantic sucking, the milk spurting everywhere and her becoming thinner and paler as their bellies rounded hard., excess spewing out their little bottoms an inhale later.
He fed more into the shredder.
Her bank card.
Her checkbook.
Her photos.
Her passport.
Her notebooks filled with lies.
Her flashdrives, disks and tapes.
All that contained her, the machinations of her multi phasic mind.
He fed it.
When the hopper was full for the third time, he went out back and dumped the bits and bytes into a hole, shoveled dirt over it and turned the tarp. It was, if not a good feeling, certainly satisfying.
He called the girls to lay violets on the mound and, slowly, slowly they walked back into the house, one by one.
It gulped so hard it pulled the papers from his hand, reminding him of the plant in "little Shop of Horrors’, of quicksand, of the days she nursed their younglings, their frantic sucking, the milk spurting everywhere and her becoming thinner and paler as their bellies rounded hard., excess spewing out their little bottoms an inhale later.
He fed more into the shredder.
Her bank card.
Her checkbook.
Her photos.
Her passport.
Her notebooks filled with lies.
Her flashdrives, disks and tapes.
All that contained her, the machinations of her multi phasic mind.
He fed it.
When the hopper was full for the third time, he went out back and dumped the bits and bytes into a hole, shoveled dirt over it and turned the tarp. It was, if not a good feeling, certainly satisfying.
He called the girls to lay violets on the mound and, slowly, slowly they walked back into the house, one by one.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Naegleria Fowleri [Brain Parasite]
"Work gives life meaning, a sense of purpose, makes you feel your day was worth something."
Crashes in my head, tide roiling over the boardwalk, pulling human detritus out to mid-sea where passing cruise ships will wonder just how THAT got out there, turn the panaceas into so much white noise.
Work locks the demons in the closet, skinny fingers claw under the edge, desperate to reach the doorknob so they can come out and guide me to the TECO oven and sing me a lullaby , perchance to dream of happier days.
Crashes in my head, tide roiling over the boardwalk, pulling human detritus out to mid-sea where passing cruise ships will wonder just how THAT got out there, turn the panaceas into so much white noise.
Work locks the demons in the closet, skinny fingers claw under the edge, desperate to reach the doorknob so they can come out and guide me to the TECO oven and sing me a lullaby , perchance to dream of happier days.
The Future is Invisible and So am I
"You know, we’re at a crossroads? That things are going to change, evolve? Whether we want it or not, change is inevitable. Trite, but true, and the changes outside are going to impact us. How we deal with them, cope, in the end, it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay."
I hear his voice, words I wish I heard, but it is all imaginary. He says nothing, staring at the papers, document sets, email chains, the bottom piece removed from a Jenga pile and the resulting crash.
He says nothing.
That is my position, silence, not his. My standard operating procedure, mode du jour. He has no right to usurp my place in the relationship, no right to mystery, circumspection, privacy, reticence. How am I supposed to respond? Do I take his role, wiggle my ears, turn cartwheels, cajole? I am clueless. The endless ramble voice I wish I heard strangles whatever my tongue might dance.
"This is a good thing. It’s time, more than time and now we’ll be able to move forward to another level, we really will. Just think, baby doll! No. don’t think, babe, feel! Let yourself feel, babe! I love you and this is good, it’s all good. You’ll see. I’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, more than fine, better than ever."
But the fantasy in my head, whispering sweet nothings, protestations of eternal love and rose strewn silk sheeted beds and microchip diamond rings, the voice promising tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, stays there, in my head, hammering my brain, not swirling down my helix to caress my tympanic membrane. The ossicles spin, measure and cut in a padded room.
He says nothing as he folds the papers back into their standard sized envelope, adorned with a certified return receipt required edge, nothing as he scrolls the numbers in his cellphone, nothing as he fills a duffle bag with pants and shirts and socks but not the photos he took of me.
Nothing as he throws the bag into the back of the car.
Nothing as he turns the corner.
Nothing as he gets onto the Interstate.
Nothing as he watches the odometer climb.
Nothing as
Nothing as
Nothing as
The air conditioner clicks on and the temperature drops a few degrees, startling me. I lift the needle from the scratch, worn through to the turntable, on the 33 rpm. I suppose I could burn it to a CD or MP3 player, but what would be the point?
It will still be stuck in limbo.
I hear his voice, words I wish I heard, but it is all imaginary. He says nothing, staring at the papers, document sets, email chains, the bottom piece removed from a Jenga pile and the resulting crash.
He says nothing.
That is my position, silence, not his. My standard operating procedure, mode du jour. He has no right to usurp my place in the relationship, no right to mystery, circumspection, privacy, reticence. How am I supposed to respond? Do I take his role, wiggle my ears, turn cartwheels, cajole? I am clueless. The endless ramble voice I wish I heard strangles whatever my tongue might dance.
"This is a good thing. It’s time, more than time and now we’ll be able to move forward to another level, we really will. Just think, baby doll! No. don’t think, babe, feel! Let yourself feel, babe! I love you and this is good, it’s all good. You’ll see. I’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, more than fine, better than ever."
But the fantasy in my head, whispering sweet nothings, protestations of eternal love and rose strewn silk sheeted beds and microchip diamond rings, the voice promising tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, stays there, in my head, hammering my brain, not swirling down my helix to caress my tympanic membrane. The ossicles spin, measure and cut in a padded room.
He says nothing as he folds the papers back into their standard sized envelope, adorned with a certified return receipt required edge, nothing as he scrolls the numbers in his cellphone, nothing as he fills a duffle bag with pants and shirts and socks but not the photos he took of me.
Nothing as he throws the bag into the back of the car.
Nothing as he turns the corner.
Nothing as he gets onto the Interstate.
Nothing as he watches the odometer climb.
Nothing as
Nothing as
Nothing as
The air conditioner clicks on and the temperature drops a few degrees, startling me. I lift the needle from the scratch, worn through to the turntable, on the 33 rpm. I suppose I could burn it to a CD or MP3 player, but what would be the point?
It will still be stuck in limbo.
Secret Life of an American Wife
Secret Life of an American Wife
Surrounded by secrets-What are we hiding, anyway?
I know, I know what lurks in the hearts of all
and it is not evil, not anything that exciting or creative, no
it is fear
it is resignation
it is past hope, devoid of redemption
See! That one over there?
He lives behind Walmart, in the truck he bought, used, when he finished high school.
Her? She skips her insulin and lunch was dumpster diving.
The greyhair across the room? She drives without insurance and will be relieved when they repossess.
Young man with frayed jeans? He moved back in with his parents and her sister and her kids.
But they all smile and pretend and make like they’re going to work and class and and and
and oh my, yes, education and integrity are so important, of course, yes sir, I will, thank you, and we all want more of this and and and
I know their secrets, how close, shoulders burning, white fingertips clutching at the precipice, they are to falling. I know.
I have secrets of my own.
Surrounded by secrets-What are we hiding, anyway?
I know, I know what lurks in the hearts of all
and it is not evil, not anything that exciting or creative, no
it is fear
it is resignation
it is past hope, devoid of redemption
See! That one over there?
He lives behind Walmart, in the truck he bought, used, when he finished high school.
Her? She skips her insulin and lunch was dumpster diving.
The greyhair across the room? She drives without insurance and will be relieved when they repossess.
Young man with frayed jeans? He moved back in with his parents and her sister and her kids.
But they all smile and pretend and make like they’re going to work and class and and and
and oh my, yes, education and integrity are so important, of course, yes sir, I will, thank you, and we all want more of this and and and
I know their secrets, how close, shoulders burning, white fingertips clutching at the precipice, they are to falling. I know.
I have secrets of my own.
Wellwood D14
He’s pushing up daisies through the hedgerow
I waited too long before, too long since
The blip in my life that was us
Grey roads and heat wave ripple air before,
tree root broken sidewalks and tsunami wind since
I lie down, partly hidden by the bushes
Soon, I will take his hand and we will push up daisies together.
I waited too long before, too long since
The blip in my life that was us
Grey roads and heat wave ripple air before,
tree root broken sidewalks and tsunami wind since
I lie down, partly hidden by the bushes
Soon, I will take his hand and we will push up daisies together.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Justice, Justice Thou Shalt Pursue
"Momma, Momma, I didn’t mean it, Momma. I don’t know..."
My girl stands there, holding a rag doll, a muddy rag doll that used to be my light, my angel, my joyful noise in the morning, in her hands.
"Momma, I think I broke it. Can you fix it, Momma? Can you? You fix everything, Momma. Can you? Please?"
I stare at the flat eyes, greyed skin, fingerless nails. I, who rewired lamps, cleared elbows, soldered cracked engine blocks, I, who fix just about anything, I knew I couldn’t fix this. No one could fix this, not even God. No one.
I shake my head.
"Momma, please, Momma. Can’t you try? I don’t know who else to ask, Momma."
I shake my head again, so cold except for the urine I realized was streaming down my leg.
"Momma, help me. You can, you have to, Momma."
The uneven plaster on the wall snags my shirt and keeps me upright while I shake my head. I watch the spinning colors behind my eyelids. I cannot look at what is in front of me.
"Momma, if you can’t fix it, can you make it go away? Momma?"
I swallow and nod yes.
My girl stands there, holding a rag doll, a muddy rag doll that used to be my light, my angel, my joyful noise in the morning, in her hands.
"Momma, I think I broke it. Can you fix it, Momma? Can you? You fix everything, Momma. Can you? Please?"
I stare at the flat eyes, greyed skin, fingerless nails. I, who rewired lamps, cleared elbows, soldered cracked engine blocks, I, who fix just about anything, I knew I couldn’t fix this. No one could fix this, not even God. No one.
I shake my head.
"Momma, please, Momma. Can’t you try? I don’t know who else to ask, Momma."
I shake my head again, so cold except for the urine I realized was streaming down my leg.
"Momma, help me. You can, you have to, Momma."
The uneven plaster on the wall snags my shirt and keeps me upright while I shake my head. I watch the spinning colors behind my eyelids. I cannot look at what is in front of me.
"Momma, if you can’t fix it, can you make it go away? Momma?"
I swallow and nod yes.
Sushi: A Fish by Any Other Name is Still a Fish
Cunt.
Lying, cheating whoremonger.
He’d rather sit there, staring, contemplating a ‘relationship’
with her. Not me.
I scroll my email logs, going back.
Fourteen months, twenty-three days.
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
It made me not like myself, the me I was with him.
The needy, whining, shutting my eyes to truth, ignoring the elephant conga line snaking around the room, head pounding me I became with him.
If I don’t respect myself, why should he?
If I don’t value myself, why should he?
Why should anyone?
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
The last trip, the test trip which I didn’t know was a test and was doomed to fail, questions written on decomposing paper with disappearing ink, letters rearranging themselves faster than a speeding bullet which stops in the cinder block wall behind my head, which ended in a bout of hepatitis A for me after eating oysters in August.
The realization that he was emailing her from my computer and clearing the cache in a futile attempt to keep me from knowing he was making plans
with her. Not me.
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
You want her, you want to fill your belly with sushi?
Go ahead. Eat. Eat as much as you can.
Eat, and when you are hungry an hour later, eat some more. Enjoy.
But she won’t take fourteen months, twenty-three days of broken promises to move on.
I have lost my taste for raw foods, for duplicity.
Give me hard-cooked eggs, pasturized milk, blackened catfish and grilled bok choy.
No more broken promises. Ever ever.
Lying, cheating whoremonger.
He’d rather sit there, staring, contemplating a ‘relationship’
with her. Not me.
I scroll my email logs, going back.
Fourteen months, twenty-three days.
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
It made me not like myself, the me I was with him.
The needy, whining, shutting my eyes to truth, ignoring the elephant conga line snaking around the room, head pounding me I became with him.
If I don’t respect myself, why should he?
If I don’t value myself, why should he?
Why should anyone?
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
The last trip, the test trip which I didn’t know was a test and was doomed to fail, questions written on decomposing paper with disappearing ink, letters rearranging themselves faster than a speeding bullet which stops in the cinder block wall behind my head, which ended in a bout of hepatitis A for me after eating oysters in August.
The realization that he was emailing her from my computer and clearing the cache in a futile attempt to keep me from knowing he was making plans
with her. Not me.
So many broken promises in those fourteen months, twenty-three days.
You want her, you want to fill your belly with sushi?
Go ahead. Eat. Eat as much as you can.
Eat, and when you are hungry an hour later, eat some more. Enjoy.
But she won’t take fourteen months, twenty-three days of broken promises to move on.
I have lost my taste for raw foods, for duplicity.
Give me hard-cooked eggs, pasturized milk, blackened catfish and grilled bok choy.
No more broken promises. Ever ever.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Meaning [lessness] of Life
One more in a long line of one mores
Aphorisms swirl through the brain, trite and treacle,
knitting a shawl that wouldn’t keep a newt warm
No, not even a newt
There is so much rejection before "I can’t take it anymore" sets in good and hard
So good and hard all I want is to be amontilladoed in
before I hear dirges of accept and utilize, accept and utilize
Accept and utilize is a curse, not an inspiration
before the good cop bad cop shuffle has me confessing to crimes
I haven’t even heard of and couldn’t imagine
If I turn it inside out, struggle, nails claw chalkboard, to make this another learning experience
I am too old for this BS anyway
But if I do-
There is a truism, that fishing is like life
Not the cast your reel and you will surely catch something
Not even the teach a man-or woman-to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime
but my own variant,
My own, "If I don’t do what I’ve always done, I’ll get something I haven’t already got"
Maybe
Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for life
There is no bait
There is no hook
There is a broken reel
The ocean is so dense with salt, so full of tears, it cannot sustain life
So teach me to fish, hookless, baitless, broken
Let me cast my reel into barren water and watch me pull in a 1978 Bridgestone tyre
Watch me
Amabo te, fame deliria. Videro finem, exitum...
Da mihi piscis, piscis, amabo te. Lac humanus beneficii, amabo te.
Just give me a fish, just for now, to fill my mouth with sweet
calm the spasms for a little while
feed me enough for today, I won’t ask again tomorrow
I know I’ve worn out whatever welcome I had
Amabo te. I am the chum. Please.
Even if life is perfect in chance, in equity, in fairness,
[Who said life was fair, anyway?]
all the skills/training/certification/experience
when chance or unspoken paradigm intercede
and move a half meter to my left for the catch du jour
while all around, dozens doing pretty much similar with similar get
nothing
again
Life is a banquet, but most poor fools are starving,
while mouse rejected crumbs litter the table
and the Maid of Honor, never a bride, is the designated driver of a limo,
gas tank hovering on empty, who can’t even numb the hurt with Patron
translation:
Please, I am delirious with want. I see the end, the final end...
Give me a fish, a fish, please. The milk of human kindness, please.
Aphorisms swirl through the brain, trite and treacle,
knitting a shawl that wouldn’t keep a newt warm
No, not even a newt
There is so much rejection before "I can’t take it anymore" sets in good and hard
So good and hard all I want is to be amontilladoed in
before I hear dirges of accept and utilize, accept and utilize
Accept and utilize is a curse, not an inspiration
before the good cop bad cop shuffle has me confessing to crimes
I haven’t even heard of and couldn’t imagine
If I turn it inside out, struggle, nails claw chalkboard, to make this another learning experience
I am too old for this BS anyway
But if I do-
There is a truism, that fishing is like life
Not the cast your reel and you will surely catch something
Not even the teach a man-or woman-to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime
but my own variant,
My own, "If I don’t do what I’ve always done, I’ll get something I haven’t already got"
Maybe
Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for life
There is no bait
There is no hook
There is a broken reel
The ocean is so dense with salt, so full of tears, it cannot sustain life
So teach me to fish, hookless, baitless, broken
Let me cast my reel into barren water and watch me pull in a 1978 Bridgestone tyre
Watch me
Amabo te, fame deliria. Videro finem, exitum...
Da mihi piscis, piscis, amabo te. Lac humanus beneficii, amabo te.
Just give me a fish, just for now, to fill my mouth with sweet
calm the spasms for a little while
feed me enough for today, I won’t ask again tomorrow
I know I’ve worn out whatever welcome I had
Amabo te. I am the chum. Please.
Even if life is perfect in chance, in equity, in fairness,
[Who said life was fair, anyway?]
all the skills/training/certification/experience
when chance or unspoken paradigm intercede
and move a half meter to my left for the catch du jour
while all around, dozens doing pretty much similar with similar get
nothing
again
Life is a banquet, but most poor fools are starving,
while mouse rejected crumbs litter the table
and the Maid of Honor, never a bride, is the designated driver of a limo,
gas tank hovering on empty, who can’t even numb the hurt with Patron
translation:
Please, I am delirious with want. I see the end, the final end...
Give me a fish, a fish, please. The milk of human kindness, please.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Return of Who?
Bad Girl stood there, silent, eyes downcast, pink leather collar dangling from her left hand.
Master stared through the pier window. She couldn't see him, not only because her eyes were down, but because of the crazed one-way glass. Even if she had looked up, stared right at him, all she'd see was a kaleidoscope reflection of herself. On his side of the glass, inside this house, he could be any denim clad statue, himself, the housekeeper or any of the train wreck of roommates he'd had since she'd disappeared three years ago. He opened the door.
"So who are you today? Cassie?" chucking her under the chin. "Alice, maybe? No, you're not. Are you Bad Girl?" She flinched, shook her head. "Are you Bad Girl come to see me? Come back to me for whatever god-forsaken selfish reason you could have? Come back to me to fix whatever nasty mess you've gotten into this time? Hmm? What now?
"Drugs? Alcohol? Work? Mick? Jerkwad still hanging around? Cynthia? Some one else? Someone new or shall I just go through the list of usual suspects? Stop your crying, I can't stand your BS. Come in, you're causing a scene. I don't need Gladys Kravitz calling the HOA on me."
She shivered as the air conditioning hit her, so much colder than when she was in and out all the time. He never ran the AC when she was there, called his bedroom "the little rain forest" but with only himself to please, or himself and whoever wasn't her, he had at a more typical temperature. The in-line skates, the orange and brown sweater draped over the chair, so not like him, alien to her memory, added another layer of cold. How much had he changed?
Master pulled a throw off the sofa and draped it around her. "Stop shaking. Come on. I'll boil water for tea. Cassie... please." Filling the kettle, fear and disgust played ring around the rosy in his mind, desire and love, yes, love, played in his heart. What was she doing here? "Why don't you put the collar on? That's why you're here? You need me to tell you? Put it on, go ahead."
She stood there, still except for the shivering.
"Yeah, you know better. Wear it with anyone else, no, no. Mine, that's it, right? You returning to your rightful owner? Huh, yeah, rightful owner. Sure, tell myself another lie. I never owned you, not even a fragment. Bitch owns me, though, heart and soul, she does. Did I say that? Here. Drink your fucking tea.
"So I guess you're here just because you missed me? I already lowered the AC, don't worry about hypothermia. Drink."
She looked at him, then into the mug, trying to read the leaves but could only see the stains left inside by long ago nights. They were all Greek or Serbo or anything she couldn't read anyway. She took a sip. "I shouldn't be here. I have to go."
He says nothing, but takes her arm and leads her into the living room. He removes the orange and brown sweater, pushes her towards the chair. She curls up in it, sips the tea. That chair, the same chair he was sitting in, reading "I am a Strange Loop" the day she left, closing the door with a gentle click of the knob. Her toothpaste and nail polish were still on the bathroom vanity.
In the few minutes it took to register that she was gone gone gone, no answer to email phone letter, he even sent flowers to her office, everything marked ‘return to sender unknown' he lost his taste for philosophy. He left the book on a fast-food table.
They Say
They say it’s easy to see, looking backwards
They say every chicken finds it’s own roost
They say if you wait long enough, it’s all good
They say, they say, they say it’s god’s truth
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
The say sunshine rises to the one who heard
They say keep working at your post
They say it’s hidden in the word
They day, they say, they say prayer is for the just
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
They say it’s a matter of getting the right card
They say change rumbles coast to coast
They say if you believe it’s not hard
They say, they say, they say love God the most
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
They say every chicken finds it’s own roost
They say if you wait long enough, it’s all good
They say, they say, they say it’s god’s truth
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
The say sunshine rises to the one who heard
They say keep working at your post
They say it’s hidden in the word
They day, they say, they say prayer is for the just
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
They say it’s a matter of getting the right card
They say change rumbles coast to coast
They say if you believe it’s not hard
They say, they say, they say love God the most
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover
Me and Maybe You, You and Maybe Me
I photoshopped myself into your life
I was your buddy, your girlfriend, your wife
Played with shapes and shadows
Put myself in the highways and byblows
I cut and pasted into your past
Made myself your first and last
Call me crazy, call me obsessed
Call me, call me, call me, call...
Do you know who I am?
I’m your strawberry pudding and jam
Can’t you see where I belong?
Where you’re weak, I am strong.
Do you hear angel harps?
I am your flats and your sharps.
I’m the one you can’t escape
No such thing as coincidence, I am your fate
You’ll be fine, shh, hush, now sleep
Accept, let me in, breathe deep
I cut and pasted into your past
Made myself your first and last
Call me crazy, call me obsessed
Call me, call me, call me, call...
I was your buddy, your girlfriend, your wife
Played with shapes and shadows
Put myself in the highways and byblows
I cut and pasted into your past
Made myself your first and last
Call me crazy, call me obsessed
Call me, call me, call me, call...
Do you know who I am?
I’m your strawberry pudding and jam
Can’t you see where I belong?
Where you’re weak, I am strong.
Do you hear angel harps?
I am your flats and your sharps.
I’m the one you can’t escape
No such thing as coincidence, I am your fate
You’ll be fine, shh, hush, now sleep
Accept, let me in, breathe deep
I cut and pasted into your past
Made myself your first and last
Call me crazy, call me obsessed
Call me, call me, call me, call...
Life is Rolling Thing
I’ve found I can live with anything
Pain
Grief
Scars
Torment of a broken soul
Seizure of a schism heart
Yes, I can
Yes, I have
but I can’t live with fear
Icicles in my eyes and paralysis of my hands
and pulse of blood slower slower and so cold
oh my god, the cold
No, that I cannot live with
So
I can live without you
a bone splitting I can take, take easily, take fine
just fine, everything will be fine
but the powerpoint possibilities you flash
hypnotize me to sleep, perchance to dream
of a place I cannot, will not go.
Pain
Grief
Scars
Torment of a broken soul
Seizure of a schism heart
Yes, I can
Yes, I have
but I can’t live with fear
Icicles in my eyes and paralysis of my hands
and pulse of blood slower slower and so cold
oh my god, the cold
No, that I cannot live with
So
I can live without you
a bone splitting I can take, take easily, take fine
just fine, everything will be fine
but the powerpoint possibilities you flash
hypnotize me to sleep, perchance to dream
of a place I cannot, will not go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
