Lifes Work

Didn’t need to go to the moon Just some place different A different headspace Am I focused and charging to the finish line? Hell no… It’s just like any other unproductive Monday Give Monday a kick in the pants and what do you get? Monday has a sore butt, so it lies down I always try and tell my friends when they are out looking for a job. You don’t need a job… what you need is enough money to pay the bills A little push from the right and a pull from the left A ton of luck and I think everyone could figure their lives out I think conformity is brain washing I think I’d rather die than be unhappy for most of my life I was born a cynic As much as a child could hate with out really knowing what it was I felt that for my family and the human race in general How could the same group of people kill each other off and spend a lot of their time and money on how to do it better? As I look around my neighborhood I see the things that have changed over the past fifteen years I see the things that had changed while I was still living here and thinking “how new�? And I think back to when I use to hide in the trees and pretend I was out in the woods with no one else around I loved the trees so much I use to make believe I was born in the jungle And that my parents found me once while they were out hiking I was different from everyone else I met. I was usually well liked by most I even befriended the coolest guys and girls, but that was in grade school At a catholic school no less People weren’t mirrors back then. You just saw who you wanted to be and tried to be around them as much as you could You would think that you could learn to be different, with out realizing everyone around you was doing the same thing Being a kid involves a lot of self inflicted torture Being older is like learning to walk, you think you have something figured out but then you find yourself sitting on your ass…

Deleted… A flash came and a rush fallowed Programs had to shut down and start up Such a great epiphany! Would be terrible if it was lost before written down Finally the window opens and the writing starts as usual First line flows out just as remembered Second line flicks off the fingers Third… Third requires a little more thought By the fourth, you realize you pigeon-holed everyone in to two categories Thinking about it for a few seconds… DELETE That was one of the first poems/brain dumps I’ve ever deleted If I’m writing to myself then I shouldn’t really have to delete anything Having someone read something puts that pressure where there wasn’t any before ANSWER: write in pen on what ever is handy…

Watchtower, marvelous virgin Breathless your lungs inhale Your stare so unforgiving, lonely Eyes trailing passage, enticing new Traces of careful footsteps Keeping time, aligning judgment Tracking every misconception to its final destiny It’s final resting place in your lamp light Your hallowed ground of piety. See my ghost, transparent siloet The bend it puts your heart in Dark watcher of the silent timid Please change your harsh gaze I bask in loves light In heart felt concern Watch my steps as they lead to your side Fellowed shadows our union has been perceived Breath in the warmth of my touch As fingers explore the sinuses tense Releasing you Untying

The days have passed and I am left standing What good is truth when it can not be fathomed What good are words when each one holds different meaning What good is love if it can be passed by like a weary hitchhiker What good is it to know someone and then have them change into someone you do not know What good is honesty without caring What good is personal happiness if everyone in your wake is sad What good is it to just walk away and not look back What good are you to me

The colors, they drive it up and down, along snow covered highways and friends sly ways The colors they need light to be seen, to shine, to be everything that they wish to be Why not just take another drink and sit and think… just let it run out… on to the living room floor Don’t hold back when the time fits you, when you seem to think that no one is around… do those things with a heart felt touch Do them over and over until your arms ache and your fingers cramp… do everything that your perverted little imagination can get a hold of and then come up with more More of the product, more of the solution, more of the passion that drives you every day to the next waiting stop Where you pause… listening to the sounds around your head the feeling that surrounds everything when nothing else is really on the line Bang on that drum you little bastard… beat out something fierce that speaks to the devils in the hearts of the men in white… when people that can’t stand to feel Beat out something raw, rip the flesh from its bony hanger In the closet that every thing hangs in rows in the dark Add some words, wont you add something that tells the world that you have a voice, that you throw out against the wind, the marrow has a sole Bring it back down to the ground, the brown dirt that sticks to your shoes, the stuff that we pave over Bring it back oh saint of rhythm, oh god of the drums, oh captain of sonic color Seeing the light under the door, the color comes back and the air looks different Touch the brush here and tell a story of what could have been One that everyone thinks should have happened, wishes they lived in just for a moment, something unreal and more like music…