please stop calling stop the letters and the flowers and the sympathy cards
we're living in the moment for a few hundred years and every now and then a turncoat waltzs in and disapers then the coffin and the eulogy and we all breathe bettter you than me the traps reset and we begin to boil our minds to pass the time

im waiting for the idle to reach itss true creshendo
im slipping in and out of conscience
too much to do before the future catches up with you
developing a little cold

postcards from truck stop promised lands

I’m alone on union railroad
Sticking to the seat
Of an empty vagrant’s box car
Crossing midnight city streets
And the girl that’s never on my arm
Is chewing on my mind
And the desert lives in Pittsburgh
Laying switchmen at my feet

And I’m on fire with the lights of passing time
And delusional desire
playing tricks on eyes
Is the rust
dissolving empathy
Or could she ever try to be
The loser in the timeless place
Is only what
she makes you face
alone

lets bleed with all the ambition we embraced a few sad years back missing a few more teeth now and caressing a different woman, still wondering which way you all think your going and who alot of us are, tasting all these runaway lifestyles till the buds turn sour and no ones picked a side and i really need to borrow you car

what is it about september

some where off in the distance we're screaming from mountain tops about all the glass houses we've hit with stones. and the miles we've put on aging buckets of rusting bolts still echo of distant life that won't yet die. im either begging for the way back or pounding pavement forward with no destination. i'm a little tired, shes breathing heavy and telling me dreams come true when you make them and i roll naked in the idea that she might be right, and hell if its all an illusion why cant we lie to ourselves and call it perfect or happy or just plain nice, im on trains bound for everywhere all at once criss crossing the Nevada desert in old fords low on fuel, im home with the kids making dinner watching cartoons and riding a stolen Harley to Mexico with two pounds of grass in the saddle bags missing out on nothing but the day before when we weren't even friends yet. still we scream at empty skys because we know its gonna fall one day, but for the rest of the night at least its over looking the hoards, the excited dull and cheerfully miserable, the divorced infected and the sober peasants, cause its not what your going to be or even what you use to be, its probably closer to what you wanted to be...i think i like that, knowing that were better off not knowing what we think we should know.

I want to be
the wine in yer glass
touching yer lips, staining them
and flowing through yer veins