sand dollars on your lips
sandals on your foot tips
send across the message
soon you will deliver
paper cuts with sharp words
praying through your eulogy
Sunday, September 14, 2003
"gathering dust in thornton, colorado."
It's all endless like the black snake in the fire of bitterness. You can't have what you'll die for so why do you even try for it? Isn't it like a miraging harbor in the middle of a typhoon unable to reach the shore for safety? Why have I come to the question again it's all up to me. or is it? The boredom of sitting around all the live long day brings nothing accomplished. Except shuffling shuffling back and fro across the burbur, and smelling the ass wafting from every direction released by those of us who partake in the vegematarian or mexican cuisine, tofu and burritos, cheese and milk, lactose intolerant. Feeling the floor rumble with every bass line thump. The studio in the basement, the jangle jangle of the guitars,vraaa vra vra vraahh!!! boom boom crash of the drums, oh yes it's all very soothing to say the most. not really. I think I'd like to be in that little apartment on 14th St. downtown Phoenix making dinner for myself, and getting that solidarity high. You know the one, right? The feeling like you can do any fuckin thing you want. In fact you do. You stand on the back balcony very naked and refreshing, the birds can see, and the neighbors that might be around during the work day. Ahhh, it feels fine the cat comes down from the rooftop, sliding that tree like a swirling fireman down the pole for his meow mix. I'd sweep the outside floor, but writing on the walls sounds more fun. "Making Life My Art" in magnum huge black permanent marker. It means everything to me, about me and what I believe about life. Enjoy the wall and the sink and the soft carpet and the dried up flower box on the porch, and the couple across the way with their lonely puppy who cries for their attention while they have little suspicious parties inside, and the pool that the girls come down to on the hot days and lay beside giving me a pleasant view. Dig the cat again, Fugazi, as he gets high and walks around with squinted eyes and catnip breath. He's the coolest cat on the block, no doubt. His girlfriend shows up every now and then, more frequent lately, they lick each other up and smell their butts and go back up to the rooftop to stick. There's an endless poster wall of the music we love and the colors we like. Candles...I dig the candles, light all of them on fire, the new the old the ugly ones from my mother, the gift candles from girlfriends and the sensual scented ones, down to the, down to the-wick, melting into the television and the coffee tables, hardening, we'll get that later...OH my G..the boiling water has burned!!!!! Forgotten all about the boiling water!! High am I, I dug too deep. I'm still very naked and now the kitchen smells like burned water. Ever smelled burned water, or is it the burnt air? Yuck! I have to scrape the brownness out of the pan, and start over. A watched pot never boils, I'll have to sneak in on the bastard. Take a peek when he can't see me. Then immerse my noodles in the boil...three minutes, thats all it takes for tonight's delight.ramen. what the hell else would it be on this weeks wage. I'm a laborer for construction contractor. Frame houses, or try. Fall off roofs and nail my fingers together. Once I was working next to Rick Speedeater, one of the veterans, pretty senior to the rest of us, but that don't exclude him from his share of injuries as his badass leather tan skin, red headwrap, dirty long hair shoots a nail from his nailgun right through the center of his hand and wails in dramatic agony. I couldn't help but have one moment of concern then try to help myself from laughing, in turn shooting my own damn nailgun right into my left shoe...Luckily it only nipped my big toe and no one saw me do it. Nailguns can be a real fun toy if there's no one around and your on top of the unfinished roof squatting on the plywood shooting the knife-life bullets into the neighbors fences...but I'm getting way off track, this work pays alright, but not enough for me to afford the most healthy food around, and plus I spend my money elsewhere, like the thriftstores to gather all the big gaudy velvet paintings of Elvis or Jesus I can find. The first Elvis has a home over the piano mantel board in Larry's shack house off 7th Street and Dunlap. It just gathers dust. Sort of like myself as I sit here day after day on the couch, at the desk, walking around, sleeping on my mattress in the basement in the peaceful darkness, waking to think there's something important to do, but instead eating a bowl of cereal... That's pretty fun. Some days I'll take the wagon downtown and find a meter still running and park the car for a bit so I can walk around and feel a part of something that I'm not. All the yups during the day, down the 16th St Mall, passing the punks and the chumps for change that I'll give to the one who's most sincere. On my fortunate days I can get a free burrito or a fish taco and a beer at Legal Peters from Trish the Dish, and feeling full and thoughtful I'll head to the bookstore and hang on the third floor with my own book to read for an hour or so, then suddenly remember the meter!! A bit like the boiling water, on my feet burning as I run in my worn down, flat footed converse back to the parking spot, passing the meterman in his blue hat, and comfortable walking shoes, and jump into the wagon that's been sitting at an expired meter for almost an hour now, barely escaping his wiper blade note. Only for a lack of knowing Denver's geography do I end up right back in Thorton, Colorado amongst the neighborhood of all day Spanish fiestas and lawn couches,inside the two story home, on the burbur, at the desk, sitting, gathering dust
It's all endless like the black snake in the fire of bitterness. You can't have what you'll die for so why do you even try for it? Isn't it like a miraging harbor in the middle of a typhoon unable to reach the shore for safety? Why have I come to the question again it's all up to me. or is it? The boredom of sitting around all the live long day brings nothing accomplished. Except shuffling shuffling back and fro across the burbur, and smelling the ass wafting from every direction released by those of us who partake in the vegematarian or mexican cuisine, tofu and burritos, cheese and milk, lactose intolerant. Feeling the floor rumble with every bass line thump. The studio in the basement, the jangle jangle of the guitars,vraaa vra vra vraahh!!! boom boom crash of the drums, oh yes it's all very soothing to say the most. not really. I think I'd like to be in that little apartment on 14th St. downtown Phoenix making dinner for myself, and getting that solidarity high. You know the one, right? The feeling like you can do any fuckin thing you want. In fact you do. You stand on the back balcony very naked and refreshing, the birds can see, and the neighbors that might be around during the work day. Ahhh, it feels fine the cat comes down from the rooftop, sliding that tree like a swirling fireman down the pole for his meow mix. I'd sweep the outside floor, but writing on the walls sounds more fun. "Making Life My Art" in magnum huge black permanent marker. It means everything to me, about me and what I believe about life. Enjoy the wall and the sink and the soft carpet and the dried up flower box on the porch, and the couple across the way with their lonely puppy who cries for their attention while they have little suspicious parties inside, and the pool that the girls come down to on the hot days and lay beside giving me a pleasant view. Dig the cat again, Fugazi, as he gets high and walks around with squinted eyes and catnip breath. He's the coolest cat on the block, no doubt. His girlfriend shows up every now and then, more frequent lately, they lick each other up and smell their butts and go back up to the rooftop to stick. There's an endless poster wall of the music we love and the colors we like. Candles...I dig the candles, light all of them on fire, the new the old the ugly ones from my mother, the gift candles from girlfriends and the sensual scented ones, down to the, down to the-wick, melting into the television and the coffee tables, hardening, we'll get that later...OH my G..the boiling water has burned!!!!! Forgotten all about the boiling water!! High am I, I dug too deep. I'm still very naked and now the kitchen smells like burned water. Ever smelled burned water, or is it the burnt air? Yuck! I have to scrape the brownness out of the pan, and start over. A watched pot never boils, I'll have to sneak in on the bastard. Take a peek when he can't see me. Then immerse my noodles in the boil...three minutes, thats all it takes for tonight's delight.ramen. what the hell else would it be on this weeks wage. I'm a laborer for construction contractor. Frame houses, or try. Fall off roofs and nail my fingers together. Once I was working next to Rick Speedeater, one of the veterans, pretty senior to the rest of us, but that don't exclude him from his share of injuries as his badass leather tan skin, red headwrap, dirty long hair shoots a nail from his nailgun right through the center of his hand and wails in dramatic agony. I couldn't help but have one moment of concern then try to help myself from laughing, in turn shooting my own damn nailgun right into my left shoe...Luckily it only nipped my big toe and no one saw me do it. Nailguns can be a real fun toy if there's no one around and your on top of the unfinished roof squatting on the plywood shooting the knife-life bullets into the neighbors fences...but I'm getting way off track, this work pays alright, but not enough for me to afford the most healthy food around, and plus I spend my money elsewhere, like the thriftstores to gather all the big gaudy velvet paintings of Elvis or Jesus I can find. The first Elvis has a home over the piano mantel board in Larry's shack house off 7th Street and Dunlap. It just gathers dust. Sort of like myself as I sit here day after day on the couch, at the desk, walking around, sleeping on my mattress in the basement in the peaceful darkness, waking to think there's something important to do, but instead eating a bowl of cereal... That's pretty fun. Some days I'll take the wagon downtown and find a meter still running and park the car for a bit so I can walk around and feel a part of something that I'm not. All the yups during the day, down the 16th St Mall, passing the punks and the chumps for change that I'll give to the one who's most sincere. On my fortunate days I can get a free burrito or a fish taco and a beer at Legal Peters from Trish the Dish, and feeling full and thoughtful I'll head to the bookstore and hang on the third floor with my own book to read for an hour or so, then suddenly remember the meter!! A bit like the boiling water, on my feet burning as I run in my worn down, flat footed converse back to the parking spot, passing the meterman in his blue hat, and comfortable walking shoes, and jump into the wagon that's been sitting at an expired meter for almost an hour now, barely escaping his wiper blade note. Only for a lack of knowing Denver's geography do I end up right back in Thorton, Colorado amongst the neighborhood of all day Spanish fiestas and lawn couches,inside the two story home, on the burbur, at the desk, sitting, gathering dust
mother of the blowin' wind.
Mother of the blowin' wind
don't let whispers get away from you
don't forget they'll come around again
and then whisp into conversation
Hide away your heart's past
it wasn't a wish come true
for your sake
there's no such thing as a mistake
if it's one you never knew
A chord struck through the ear
your secrets came out of nowhere
you're void of an innocent future now
it split right open
now you're faced with face
you can save yours with a lie
or see the truth in your burden's eye
Fate changes love
it steals back a heart, or purifies the dove
it can't behold histories
it casts out all theories
it answers questions never asked
it completes the final task
Oh mother of the blowin' wind
hear your daughter's new song
as easy as it isn't
accept what may come
and let go of what's gone
Mother of the blowin' wind
don't let whispers get away from you
don't forget they'll come around again
and then whisp into conversation
Hide away your heart's past
it wasn't a wish come true
for your sake
there's no such thing as a mistake
if it's one you never knew
A chord struck through the ear
your secrets came out of nowhere
you're void of an innocent future now
it split right open
now you're faced with face
you can save yours with a lie
or see the truth in your burden's eye
Fate changes love
it steals back a heart, or purifies the dove
it can't behold histories
it casts out all theories
it answers questions never asked
it completes the final task
Oh mother of the blowin' wind
hear your daughter's new song
as easy as it isn't
accept what may come
and let go of what's gone
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)