Wednesday, November 30, 2005


it flows from spout to porcelain
and it hasn't rained like this in days
i'm a cold sweat in an awkward pause
but we all fumble for perfect words

where's the phrase thats going to turn her
as they all delve deep into pockets for the scrap of paper
carved with passion
that will no doubt ease their longing

another toast to oblivia
who knows without knowing
the blindest eyes can hear the truth we miss between syllables

but no ones blessed or rested
we're all just serving time
and you can't dig forgiveness
without fucking up the perfect crime

but all in all theres a bathroom stall
with everyones name in ink
so we all know each others secrets about our stained glass intimacies


Light shifts from the rain
Isis and her nagging question
drowning outside
I'm squeezed in the back of the life raft
all that's New Jersey floats by
gas station arm chairs and catch all catch-phrases

let me get one more sip from that bottle
my mouth is getting dry

Isis looks up at the rain
"you're not going to remember
this tomorrow, the dance
or the flashes of open heart
or the pavement"

let me get one more sip from that bottle
I'm parched

the crazy sound of tatoo pen
burning up the bottom of my feet
I'm not crying from the pain
I'm weeping from the colors

a tale of two cities (in two parts)

part one

in a room over looking a city
that holds no remorse
street corner proteges
sell all they've got
an urchin in rags rings a bell
as the snow falls
it's business as usual
hold all of my calls

streetlights and indigo blue
turns the pages
a few blocks away a trash can fire
that rages on
and huddled around or a sleep on the ground
are the hundreds of maritime street demons
celebrating a days spoils with newsprint duvets
and the food from the corners of mouths
that which was expendable
not necessarily that which was needed

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

falling over-not down

that light keeps dimming periodically
and the spaghetti westerns reel in the true nature of your foot long breakfast sandwich with Mandella and a side of fries
oh sun ravaged bean sprout
the saddest day is tuesday between 4 and 4: ten am

its nothing sexual
i'm just trying to hide the wine
and the world is slowly shrinking
and the belligerent fools stand eagerly on their heads
with two other mystic old souls and good spirits
scrambling for another cigarette
attempting to explain the probability of five am

hallucinogenic toreadors
the stockmarket faith healer
sangre de toro
the blood of the bull

ease into the rest of existence
a cool deep breath
let abundance signify solitude
and let me drive
you'll kill us all

Monday, November 28, 2005

Norman Rockwell's Unfinished Business

suits litter the highway
naked they walk
once enslaved
now free

the glass all breaks from the cold
but the huddled companions share their heat
one soft reluctant mass
never falling

Bowling Shoes

there she was like still life
lit by neon
with bowling shoes
and the booze on her breath
flavors of a devil, innocence, and wanting
in sharing slow kisses
her eyes had seen rolling hills in Tennessee
and streets and wine bottles in Brooklyn
demanding embraces
unable to speak fully
anxious and splendid
in between
the moments she leaned in firmly

still and silent

in the inhale pause
before a night lets loose
a passionate yellow eyed sunrise kiss
the only surviving ricochet thought
balancing above coarse wooden dock planks
slips as a whisper

in the still air
still lit flags only
tingle and shiver
above salty marsh grass

the whole bustling rabbid dance world
reduced to the demur of a Charlie Chaplin film

in the morning haze deadlights
the anxiety of awaiting dew
so much infinity in a tic-tic moment
(a man could live forever there)

whispered in the seldom heard sizzle
as a cigarette but meets bay water

another one from the west

my ears have gone septic
in to many ways
my poems flee to the recesses
of brown coffee stained napkins
laundry in my trunk
three thousand miles more on the odometer
the desert's dust on everything

and burnt feathers smolder
in a Colorado rain

there's a girl named Jersey
there's a girl named the West
and there's a girl still out there-
ambiguous dancer, vague promise, etheral

in the roadburn sunrise
I remember tumbleweeds
and native american cheek bones, and momentum, and frenzy, and delirium, and a dry mouth
and the roadburn sunrise

December, looking over the dunes

and these winter heros
riding large swell on long boards or guns
cutting down the face
drenched in chilled spray
obscurring their halos

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Burlesque Nights and Fireflies

reminded of my grandmother as I slink around this sultry bar
peering through windowpanes, slowly losing control of the vehicle, drifting off the dock at the end of their street, pregnant again
he was right about the car crash
someone was on fire, but that’s not enough
you learn these lessons after a few stiff drinks and solid dialogue
none the less
this woman is amazing, there aren’t enough eyes on her
dancing as if an albino constrictor gently wraps around her waist
a tongue tickle across her naked shoulders
bathed in dollar bills, as the musty blood red light plays blackjack on her dreams
house wives, horned toads, all the kids "not" in costume gather favorably at the bottom of her twisting feet
craving, mentally caressing the silk of her skin
enlightened and taking notes
accusing, burning holes in her back as she gyrates away
when its all over and robed, she tells me secrets
vagabonds filter through doors, spilt onto this broken town, pinned beneath the smog of night
retiring, turning homeward, if one still stands in their minds
Sandra D flipped Betty Page, fucking confusion into the briefcase of a husband behind his cubicle
while street corner shoppers stumble fearlessly through vomit down dark alleys to their favorite strip mall
the solitary souls holding their own hands, admirably indulging in a mess of masturbation
dances alone
in her clothes

Saturday, November 26, 2005

The Ones That Swim Away

she chalks off another infatuated unfortunate heart laughing it up
keep your eyes wide and words pretty, you’ll reel um in
and when they’re choked to death by the magic in her air, breathless beauty, or her need to
dissect and analyze every fragment of her egotistical life, toss them in the dungy bucket
if there’s any room left
but don’t forget environmental law, you wouldn’t let me,
gut them all and sing while you sever their heads, pretty words, pretty words
linger in every lick of their torched flesh, pick your teeth with their fragile bones and
SNAP! she throws back her head, crys cause there’s no fish left to listen to her song
flings their innards to the dog and hands me the scales to fashion her a crown
cause that’s really what this is all about,
sport, sport and pretty words

Friday, November 25, 2005

broken traction, 22 degrees

someone peel my face off this blacktop
keep singing, all I can hear now
is my tounge scraping the gravel,
looking for the last drops of spilt chianti
and freezing breath, dropping like hail.
blood and wine are indistinguishable
again, sea of glass tinted red, building
upward, against gravity (as I give in)
it's fragile in a way distance isn't
but I wouldn't know that, all I know is
this isn't a real parkling lot, just a black, friday
impression left behind in the air
as I drain through cracks in the ice
as we drag our way back, away from
serene landscape, it's almost first thaw
anway, but right now it's 22 degrees, and
I shiver as she cuts off the bleeding

those trees are none too subtle
showing me red like blood
orange flamed leaves
are a warning

even the squirrels see it coming
two of every animal
try to slip away unnoticed

two heads collide

two heads collide in silent screaming afternoon till night
the piniata effect
don't go in that room until we get it al cleaned up
the bits of skull and hair and teeth and gray matter adorn these walls and the two of us are now this one blood speckled entity finally having found our common ground

in gardens of ice I rest until the cold kills me, or the noise
stomach brimming with unwanted nourishment, not conduced by affliction only an obligation to fulfill
mostly with red wine and bananas
either way this is all just one more sunrise over an Atlantic seashore suicide
a bubble if you will, and a longing of immense magnitude ripping away at the fibers of this party dress
throwing around train tickets and fairy tales, blinded in my left eye only to walk head on into another sleepless night
whispers from the king and queens’ room travel well to the ringing ears of the opened minded
I wish they’d just be real, slam the door and scream
creeping over a bridge, she turns toward the muffled music and a bad painting of the sky
saying to me
"isn’t that beautiful, this is our home"
home? that’s up to you , only an opinion and everyone’s entitled to it
I’ve felt better though

Thursday, November 24, 2005

what a mess (part 2)

those beautiful memories
the erotic sunset
the desolation of an arizona near dusk
i long again for Barstow and a quick shot across the land without reason
now the basic beauty seems stripped and no one laughs
the screaming is doubled up in the house and in my mind
i find it so comforting that one day none of this will matter
these plain old complexities running down hill to meet you in your pine box

well, the decades have skated past thus far and with a bit of luck i'll be long burned out and forgotten but for the tongues of those my insignificant words remebered now roll off

theres a place i miss so immensely that i cant even bring myself to tell you about it...that and i can't remember being there
i think that i have cried in the past couple of days over some such silliness that left my life so hollow feeling
this isn't a poem
it isn't a story it isn't anything creative
i hope that i'm dumb sometimes and i just don't see the shit

Einstein said that imagination is more important that intelligence
i believe him
but i also imagine that i'm careening along a narrow desert road at 110 mph wanting to be struck down by the hand of the truck driving god approaching from over the up coming hill... to die in this abysmal dry heat of a blistering afternoons paranoia and not have to worry about the beauty being eroded away by what i'm told is the way things are

fuck you
i'm dead too and i have no one to drink a toast to my death with
fuck this
the days get sooooo short around here whenever i think that the sun is my dearest friend

i enjoyed surfing this summer
what is wrong with me
nothing i'm fine
and you ?


smoking halves of cigarettes naked on the balcony
in the rainy Boulder morning
and she puts on this accent when she says her last name
sleeps with a knife on her hip
on countless mexican beaches
on countless mexican nights
draws out her words then fires them faster
forcing brains to reel and runaway fishing line spooling out
injects verbal pins into asses
just to see a feedback dance
and frowns when the boys just line the walls
bathes in power and finds it uncomfortable
swims if she has to
is free

what a mess (part 1)

yellow and brown index finger skin
black that won't come out from under
the windows broken the door is ajar
and i'm pickled in the tragic basements of america

small shreds of paper with all knowing verse
39 cents
sick from wine and time and friends and lovers
desperate to break away

theres a girl over there who knows the music all too well
i watch with great anticipation of her next sultry move that i'll beat my head against the wall over
remembering for days thinking goddamn theres such a beautiful innocence to the sexuality that she basis all this on

i drink to everything in sight
i'll be on a bus someday listening to head phones and just trying to get out of whatever hell i've let loose around me
that same old song will come on and i can cry

"jerk off in the bathroom or in a woman with the help of a movie about birds your lives are all sing song happy shindigg shit house idiocy and who am i but a cautious observer and a reckless participant

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

you’re just one more butchered Radio remix
overplayed and understated
a misinterpreted mangled Mess of unappreciation
so I’m going to Dance over there

today i stopped and turned away from all the words you yern say
hung the chicken wire from the fan into the fire, smeared your love across the walls and bowled potatoes down the hall
then i punched you in the face inside my head
rolling over roaming through this land inside my head, reviewing all the shame within shit that you’ve just said
i plan to take my time and analyze them one by one wondering, all the while, in which direction i should run
now when you took my hand and asked me for this dance, i should have seen it coming i should have smelt the burring flesh
the shell of you you scarred upon my skin will still taste stale, but when i turn my eyes inside i realize it wasn’t i that failed
so go ahead, except his offer, do it now, i wont stop you, who doesn’t want to blow balloon animals down in hell anyway

in perfect worlds we dream
but only half believe
the horizon's crashing down


fuck poetry
fuck dreaming
fuck the romance of breathing
but above all
fuck this numb sedentary life

where's our neal, our fire, our amphetamines?

visions safely in our heads
and no sounds of feet shuffling

i want to dance all over this crazy world
with an audience of stars and gods

I want to slaughter gazelle with my powerful jaws
and sleep with the flawless torsos of women everywhere
cry myself to sleep with the light off
move and be moved
play stadiums and sideshows
not just in my head
drink authentic mountain spring water
not like the commercials
clap cuz i mean it


little punk rock girl
with the glimmer metal shining
don't you fear
that ferocious safety pin
holding the Used patch
to your back pocket?

A Toast

beneath a thousand stars
let us sleep as beasts
one with this earth and these trees
at first light
let us wake and live
as gods
with thunder and lust and majesty

Monday, November 21, 2005

of lust life and law

drown in delight
a dancing desire
bitterness broken
nights filled with fire

patiently punish
leisurely sway
ascension to summit
leading the way

expanded indulgence
enabled to enter
seizing the moment
to heaven he sent her

thrilling the triumph
harbored the feeling
deeply demanding
to unwrap the healing

bounteous passion
pleasure pursuing
scenes of seduction
to taste what’s been brewing

exquisite forbearance
higher than high
a coming of nature
breathless you lie

continues in calmness
deeply deliver
the freedom of fugitives
fulfilled hearts quiver

Sunday, November 20, 2005


One second in either direction
And you can miss rearview sunrise
Blinding flame tounged burning cloud engulfed in
Orange, pouring from broken seal, cracked horizon

Sometimes I sleep through it
Sometimes I just have my head up my ass
Once in West Memphis the sun never came up
It doesn't always make it across the Mississippi

If this is your idea of morning you can keep it for a while
I haven't had enough time to map the stars
Never got a clear enough view of scorpio
Cold air makes stars sharper, serrated

Enough time for one more cup
One more drag, one more lean over
Grab dos sugares and move along
I'm sure I'll catch you on the other side of that door

Clocks move slower at higher speeds -
Albert Einstein said that.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

cut me a slice of that old 65

you died in my my arms in a dream i once had
and i'm truly ashamed to call you dad
but the bruises on my face all wear you signature
with a belly like steel and a soul to match you stumbled off with out a scratch and i think i did the hurtin and the hatin for the both of us

this tender spot above my eye brings me back to time when you should have died but i put down the knife and picked up a pen instead
raped and pillaged, strung along
a feral child that can't belong
abandoned in his youth to follow none

now my problems you say are all my own
as i try to refurbish this broken home
with dirty finger nails and broken teeth to remind me
a phone call in the heat of drink can really stop and make you think of the child you tortured and turned a blind eye to

well i'm glad as hell that your ashamed
a deadbeat crushed in his own game your dead to me and that still gives me hope
so i found him lying on the street 60 years old in a handy -capped seat
a bitter old tired shell of a never was
with a few spiteful words i was on my way and you were left to desintigrate and the only legend you left was a tale of a fool
so from time to time when i cross this stool with a bottle of red and a puddle of drool i think of you and smile that you have gone

Friday, November 18, 2005

no after party
no rock and roll
no kiss good night
no promises broken

here i am, stalled

with a bottle, empty and dangling from finger tips
the way the sunrise replays itself
begins to hurt my eyes
and my muscles like a burning

I recall phoenix
and all that meant
but dust is like sand
the way it behaves as it falls through hands
and it doesn't seem to be leaving any feathers

what are critical mass and escape velocity?
...this time around

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Drape my body in the rags of star spangled lies

they're shedding skin down by the theatre
and handing invites to the masses
with grandiose proclamations
gifts of knowledge,honor promised
it only takes one little man to change
the world is what i'm told
so do us all a favor
lay your body in this hole

you're coming home oblivious
well the parts that we could find
you've done our reputation justice
letting blind lead way to blind
and you're family's been compensated
for their tragic loss
precious life cut short
for freedom at any cost

now there's fabulous arrangements
strewn across the parlor floor
your mother holds a flag
and your father holds the door
now your captain says a few words
and it's clear he knew you well
when he says he "saw it coming
but he knew that war is hell"

you're coming home oblivious
well the parts that we could find
and you've done your country proud son
thanks for swallowing these lies
and this tiny inconvenience
shouldn't turn you off war
you're such an inspiration
to the hundred thousand more

that'll soon be at the ready to join you in the ground
you won't believe how many little soldiers we just found
who use to play in ball games and operate machines
now precious putty for the molding
of the united states marines

and you're coming home oblivious
well the parts that we could find
you've done our reputation justice
letting blind lead way to blind

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

old skyline visions from a box car 2am

alicia'd seen it coming
the accident that tore us all apart
she's sweeter than she looks he promised
as the dagger pierced his heart

a plan to get thee nowhere
and anywhere but here
a grey hounds back is stable
when your destinations clear

a short stint in manhattan
to the rail yard with the sun
a bed roll and my lover
in a mad dash built for one

in newark to penetration
a few fences left to mend
and straight shot clear to baltimore
stoed away with new allies

judas rode mule to box car
who had just been released
for a fortune earned in stick -ups
20 years ago this spring

and aging rapid descention
to a grave so premature
was a life i'd left just weeks ago
for a world thats never yours

rust colored fingertips
and food for not quite three
the four of us won't make through another
nights ecstasy
and taking leave of boundless love
i'd shudder to think of how
but tommorrow there'll be lonliness
and it all seems smaller now

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

place-mat peices

punch for the Spoon
while I steal
the Shit that no one buys
Knows nose blows
Bathroom breaks
neon Nights
cold Coffee
Hot Wet Cantaloupe
TireIron-like strangers
Oil changes
egg vomit in frying pan scum
Once again the only woman that comes to Dinner

bad coffee and a cranberry sauce sea

I throw-up Hell
all over Fisher
Fisher and his Rush hating Heart
I want to go home
find a Toilet
make love to it
Punch it in the face
then apologize
"you're not a very good Addict"
"you Reek of fermentation"
oh by the way,
porcelain keeps secrets well
so make shure
to make up
in the Morning
fall off
fall over
Fall on
this Road was never ment to end
these Strangers taste just like old friends

On cool airless nights
I have a habit
of breathing on windows

Foot Path (taken down by the Exxon then turned back following the scent of #2 pencils)

Dogs can smell you coming
and see hands hidden up sleeves
taste nerves
they know how burnt fingers
leave lost impressions
no trace of having grasped
well I'm glad something can see
through table soaked in cream
didn't trap your heart
can't let this season breathe

Cold down to these painted finger tips
not worth near what they sold it for
can't quite grip this illusion
suspicious eyelids blinking to keep
the light out in turn
and that's not liable
to get too lost
nothing a good sextant can't fix

Sand paper makes for friction. I don't have a
thick hide,
I don't scratch, I just mark
migration, drastic charred
foot path
worn like gold crosses lazily,
just a fact that gleams
off your shoulder
just your shoulder
where I lean my weary head
a drop of dew on ivy

Traded Karma

(I'll take yours if you take mine)

Monday, November 14, 2005


telephone junkies
and remember whens
whats a silouette between old friends
didn't look at my watch once
pretend you heard it in a movie
no time passes like the time we passed it up
and telephone junkies have a way about themselves
the weight of massive tank engineers
evenly distributed betwwen cogs
sip wine and bellow for the evening train to hear
a story seldom left untold

Saturday, November 12, 2005

i've just past marker 114
with the promise of the things unseen
i'm leaning in to catch the groove
that isn't old or borrowed blue

a junky waitress
steals a bite of my pie
in love the second time this week
making love where bathroom stalls get high

i'm still as lonley as the time i followed suit
but i know that nothings coming
but the taste of bitter fruit

collect the spoils as i roll
through states of mind like arkansas
where pretty aint no commodity
but she's still working just as hard

from here i wonder silent through the magic of the paint
if anythings worth dying for
and is it hard to hook the bait

just missing a little money
and the diget next to my ring
i can't be held responsible
but i promised you somthing

despite the horror of the day
i'm still apt to lick the spoon
the stunning iron grave yard
at the sullen gates of noon

Right Where I Want To Be

Over fifty fags
Kid Rock in Tennessee
What is stranger still
one gets the roalties
I wait for more
Forks against plates
Wet and tasty sounds
vibes are sour
A show in NewYorkCity
Salt :TAP: repeat
Substitute pepper
They share Ham
Snatch silverwear
That's twice so far
these Homosexuals
the Kids whole story
They sip tea on ice
Break faces
Mosh pits and broken country
Do they really think of rocking hard?
Someone's BUS is burning
Miles sings background grooves
Chitter from a new adventure
They just walked through the door
Nothing stops my scribbles
I should smoke
I should leave
this room is full of men
Who wont ever want to take me home
The salted pork
Something spills
I linger longer

when days get like these and the way we stare off

trying to get through Tolstoy
drinking to much coffee
smoking to many cigarettes
running my fingers over my skin
and hearing the hearts drum beats

when days get like these
i think i've got an ulcer or cancer
or some other ailment of a man twice my age
with a mortgage

payphones are becoming a romantic ideal
like a greaser's boots

i miss all of europe, impersonally
see south america and the west in my dreams
worry about the atlantic ocean
though i know it can take care of itself
hate the second hand in weaker moments

and i'm falling in love again
the way we stare off
with the literature of a situation
dear jack micheline
how many women did you cripple
with the poetics or romance of it all
for the poetics and romance of it all
and shouldn't they have seen it comming
in the firelit nights and the crickets
sometimes i see women
as used ashtrays and sunrise
the way we stare off

the Romance of things

cigarette cough, the six o clock news, moving vans and moving men and appliances, operating systems, want ads on the back pages, overdue library books, peeling paint, crumbs in the couch cushions, the rainy season, a mint condition automobile from 1973, ripped jeans, a job interview, the tassels that hang on the arms of leather jackets, the shape of rain drops, a clown's fingerprint facepaint, egg shells, leftover turkey and stuffing, tuesdays, november, a cheap thirty pack of beer, half price drinks at happy hour, a horror film, dog hair on a dress shirt, the taste of a girls lip balm, metallic colors, dark sunglasses, the second hand, a squeaky door, a swollen lip, the sound a lighter makes in the dark, a thin line of rising smoke, hard candy, sticky hands from breakfast syrup, a ceiling fan on low, the smell of band-aids, khaki pants, bourbon in the back of the throat, the little whiskersleft in the sink after a shave, red eyes in a photograph, a baseball cap on a young girl, pay phones and dial tones, the sound of an engine starting up, a reflection in a window


Butterflies sleep ugly

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Shy I Will

has appeal
like Sun ripened grapes
hang high upon the vine
So sits the shriveled raisin
left behind
They all must gape at the luscious grape
for she is a sight of splendor
still Raisin sat
to ponder that
and of Days she wish not
The gleaming glow
we all should know
in every Color
every Dream
is tainted....more
an unsettled score
by the grapes
that steal
the scene
Now hidden well
in shadow fell
sits raisin
nothing more
No gleam
No glow
No fancy show
no gapping eyes upon her
So still she waits
consumed by Fate
for One will look
to find her
and He will know
an inciting blow
The Gallant Grapes Are Sour!
where the sweetness lies
within the Eyes
of Raisins' silent power

Saturday, November 05, 2005

Blossom all ye fading faceless

Never you believe until the knife is in your belly

always run
always running
not to or fro
but running

the season to illuminate the deterioration
aging with you and the lookers on

" I've never seen a tree in late October leprosy,
unabashed by skyscrapers and revolving restaurants".

fall in the amusement park

clothes covered in the dust or the ghost of rust
porcelain horses laying slain or asleep
one more coat of deep red paint
in one more off season
wondering about the myth
of a life after jersey

diner jukebox sparks (title collage)

finding myself out of my depth
when it all goes wrong again

the fundamental things
on silent wings
remain when the heartache is over
over my head

take me to your disco
forever down the lonely road of faith
a new day has come
and i'm alive
alive underneath your clothes

in the rearviewmirror
please forgive me

a little less conversation
gnawin on it
in the space between
this lonely road
with a band on the run

only god knows why
these are the days
i showed her again
the black velveteen

just like a pill
all the way
one more time

here is gone
big machine
wherever you will go
visions of paradise

desert rose
after the rain has fallen
every other time
dream on

leaving samhain

the town was beginning to look like germany after the bombs had fallen which was a stark contrast to the times square gates of hell mood lighting of the place just hours earlier. now the roads were lined with pilgrims half clad in costumed skin, hexed auras, and beer goggles causing me to recall dreams of whole disney worlds evacuated for reasons of plague or strike or communist witch hunt. i remember the various recruiters who had shown up to vie for our souls- some claiming to be cowboys, some claiming to be heros, some claiming that wasn't why they were there, but all distributing pamphlets or profilactics. now it seemed that the protective and holy properties of lsd and the jersey edge had held on for just long enough to endure all this spiritual warfare, wave after wave, but there was still the threat of hartford traffic to wade through before we were out of this fog. i think i saw a black magic woman, i think i saw crisp daylight, i think i've seen enough. in the end we were lucky to have made it out with what little karma we had stolen from new england.


This dropped thought conversation
over coffee and bracelet
and there's pineapple in the desert
I wonder how long...

Will someone please stop that damn cricket?

4 booths
13 nights, not what you had in mind
I just wanted a cup of coffee
not to be troubled by your
frustrated traffic light saga
keeps coming back to that same traffic light

And that damn CHIRPING!
It shouldn't be hard to find
stand over there, we'll triangulate

Hooded sweatshirt, traps her cigarette smoke
"I never thought of it that way"
Yeah, I'll bet you didn't

This was no one's first choice
but you put down roots
get tangled up
and they make sure to get just enough sunlight

you're cricket food
you're in shambles

last thought of next traffic light
yeah, next time it's gonna be different
don't you ever change that clock?
Maybe I'm just moving slower
I'll sink away now
I've had too much to
or not enough yet

windows fracture to spider webs
to catch the cricket, next step
up on the food chain
you can keep climbing that chain
I like the view down here