Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Finished making sense

I pulled down the scaffolding in my body
ground it up into a crystal powder
and distributed it on the street corner
where the building I grew up in used to stand.

Alive and naked and ready to go
he was waiting for me when I got home.
I said: I’m sorry babe, I’ve sold my bones.
He said: that’s just like you, I should have known.

He got dressed and I watched him go.

I’ve survived on nicotine and Life
these past few cold and empty nights,
but I am finished making sense of this
and living under false pretenses.

Holding Steady

I am self destructing.

I can hear the seconds counting down
took those pills you gave me
to see if I could turn the volume down
smoked that cigarette I was saving for a crisis
and waited to implode.

This elevator is not going to fall any faster
no matter how many times you press the button.
Next time take the escalator.

I hold this cigarette like a pencil
if I could write with it
well, it would tell a different tale.

I’m pretty sure it should be raining
but the sky is holding steady.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008


Went to pick him up at midnight
at the airport outside of town
Stalling in the coffee shop
before I looked around
Wondering if that old man by the staircase
is my father
And the grief had aged him 20 years,
in less than 24 hours
How do you tell someone that you love, that they're never going to see their father again?

or tell a brother that your grandfather is dead?

I don't have the words.

Go green?

I like the rain on my bare skin
and I don’t mind when I don’t win.
I can’t help dancing in the rain
and I’ve got the highway in my veins.

And you can have me if you like your women numb
just don’t touch what I’ve become
and please - recycle me when you’re done.

I like the smell of cigarettes
and I don’t believe in having regrets.
I won’t respond to your demands
but I’m a sucker for nice hands.

And you can have me if you like your women numb
just don’t touch what I’ve become
and please - recycle me when you’re done.

I’m an addict when it comes to tattoos
and I have always been my own muse.
I have to work at being happy every day
and if you fuck with me there’ll be hell to pay.

And you can have me if you like your women numb
just don’t fuck with what I’ve become
and please - recycle me when you’re done.

I’d go fishing in the clouds if I could
and walk barefoot all year round if I could
and I’d just like to be loved, if I could
and you could have me if you would.

Just don’t destroy what I’ve become
and please - recycle me when you’re done.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Victims of Addiction

Every tattoo you get, is the last you’re going to get
But a week goes by and you forget the pain
And you realize you haven’t made a big enough statement yet
And then you find yourself advertising your current lovers name
And your sick addiction is to blame

And isn’t it true that every last pack of cigarettes you buy
Is a buy one get one free
And you fuck your good intentions
In favor of sound economy

And you swear that this will be your last hit
Then you smoke it, and forget to quit
But no, you’re not an addict

And you always fuck her one more time
If she asks for it, it’s not a crime

Because we are all victims of addiction
And we will always give in
We’re going to fuck and smoke, get tattoos and get high
Until the day we die

Now I'm broke, but the homeless man has a new car...

If I could buy a miracle
dump my purse into a wishing well
and wait –


Angrily eye the grimy water
polluted with soggy dreams
piped in, sucked out
take a deep breath
and commit your dreams to a watery death.

The suits are marching past
briefcase wielding mercenaries
they pass this watering hole twice a day
and know better than to stop and drink.

Drowning copper pennies gleam like gold
lent an ethereal cast by the falling sun
as it sinks below the sterile metal and glass,

the streetlights flicker and ignite.

The man in the refrigerator box
drags his home noticeably closer
leans over the moss eaten barricade
and comes up clutching a handful of dull dreams
enough to sustain him for another week.

who needs sunny days, I write better in the rain

it's raining, soaked to the skin
they call me to come in
but I've had a bad day
and the house is looking slightly suffocating
and I'd rather keep on spinning

later they'll tell me I have no sense
and i'll laugh at their expense
I would gladly die a cold wet death
if I could say I lived my life
until my very last damp breath

for them every second has a plan
and every adventurous detour is a nice way to say you're lost
and rain is just the culprit behind muddy footprints and frizzy hair

But i won't schedule my existence
and i don't like road maps
and i'm going to stay out here spinning
until the gray clouds give way
and the sun is raining light on me
and the rain is shining in the vacant street
while they peer out from behind their glass barriers
and shake their heads at me

Friday, March 21, 2008

Refrain from Living

I've been listening with deaf ears
to a song that has never been played
humming tunelessly along
and acting out the refrain

'And now, ecstasy, I'm cheating on your memory
head thrown back, i'm letting go
If the sun stays hidden I'll dance in the rain
and let it wash these silly dreams away'

Never mind how tone deaf I've become
the lyrics are loud enough
they scream through my head and scorch my skin
leaving brands in flesh where tattoos had been