the inquisitor's surrender
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



i repair photoelectric sensors & industrial controls.
i can hear your eyes glaze; dancer tells me it
sounds mysterious and arcane but it's simply primitive
sight marking the passing of material thru this assembly


line world. where do you want to trigger
the output? leading edge or trailing? pulse stretch or not? on
delay or off? these things are selectable these
things are mutable. do you want the chocklate
elefant's trunk or its tail? do you want to wrap it up
or leave it open? we can help. it's my job

to find the failures. the ones
that act glitchy. the ones giving false
outputs on the factory floor or self destructing
in an orgy of fired up capacitance . the immolators
are easy to spot. it's the intermittent ones that cause

the most grief. i can batter them
with tests , pummel the salesmen
with questions. no one seems to be able to explain

their non- compliance, the capriciousness of their operation,
the unfolding of subversive failures found most often on graveyard
shifts when no trained personnel are available for exorcism.
everything appears to be working just fine. so i send them

back to their owners where they will wait until the warranty period
is almost expired then begin to stack product in the middle of a 252k
per second line-pills and bottles, aspartame gum, three
musketeers tumbling like revolutionary
poetry from the mouths of babes, off the 24/7 stop-n-go belt.


I want no more than home
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



if i could suspend
your risen face just above
the horizon, hold it there
and motion without time
a concentric circle an aureole
your umbrella up and shadey
that is where i'd leave us
beyond the borders of boredom
locked into perpetual ear nip
swallowing the key


after the chops are cooked
and the dishes washed, floors swept,
fractions calculated, heads drooped
over pillows, after work,beyond dark
i can't wait to hold you again.


so tall up there in young air
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


when the monthy glow hides
in mothy cloud i weep. tears
truncate beyond the seething
sea and teeth cut on a barnacle
grown on the side of a bard,

the connections get fainter-as if phosphors
in a petri dish, shining on the next in line--
nostril nerves and shallow graves. i touch them

as they fall but can do nothing with my lost stars.
they preceed me through places i'll never go:
holes backlit and bakelite. holes remanded
to the keep. as water to empty spaces as wisdom
to empty minds. then- sublimation, on a shoestring budget.


the hyacinth, a woman my age
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a nimbus of light spills
thru hair shorn at the root
and pasted on this petal.

she keeps finding the tap
then letting it go, white cream flow
downstream circling.

in the floor is a whole she wishes
to slip into, dark , shape of a lily pad.
here she knows, the bass angle for brim.

when she's oblique she wants
trim eyebrows and a fat wallet.

when the sun is full on, wilting becomes her halo.

the bridge stands erect. she thinks of men.
if she were suicidal things would be done.

she is scentless. purchases hormones online.

so much to go thru, item by item.
she thinks of honeycombs, commisions the woodworker

he comes to her home. they embrace.
the ideas repeat themselves in tacky hair.

love stories are for frogs and the mudstained
skirts of ophelia. she understands this. she allows

the roses to wilt, and unfolds through them
with a cubist desire to share flat points of view.

the smell she realises that's when
they're rilly gone. the seeds are so tiny.



for kelp
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i wanted something of a river
something with water, holding a flow-
the dutch boy with a fork for a finger
we all know these references
they're common, are they not?
my son has entirely different allusions.
he and his new best friend live in itenerancy.
the fluid ity of halo the morals of a sociopath
bent against the easter bunny. rabbit rabbit
and bugs apears, a little old fashioned, a little top
hat and swizzle stick a bit kitsch till he blows
up elmer fudd. mario finds endless new
lives with the secret code. he
gets bored, grapples with a dungeon
and dragons' spawn in a new! mixed platform! see
it first on this gaming complex. they don't learn
from me that life is just a game. they learn from sony.







Your search - elmer fudd double take j.peg - did not match any documents.













so information is the new economy.
can't get some ones copyrited stuff someone's infobandwidth
without express digital consent. what is there to say
about that? i could bitch but that wouldn't hold a teacup
of piss in the ocean of copy. someone once told me
the best thing that could happen to your stuff is that someone
famous
should steal it.




think about that.
i mean you'd know, and they'd know.
what more validation could you need?
if it's just about the money honey
you're already dead.














*


the labor laws are better in colorado
mcd's is going to outsource your drive thru order.
the phone rings in the downstairs apartment
cirrus bleaches the neon sun, fogs the blue
plankton over paranoia. time gyres and you're
left reeling in a closet till downtime
the ocean plays mariachi with the shore.
the shore kisses fish. that, and all this light



Registered User
(4/1/05 7:03 pm)
Reply Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't miss this, I missed commenting on it, & apparently everyone else did too. This close to the first section:

they don't learn
from me that life is just a game. they learn from sony

Yeah I got you, & aint it the truth. The section has your idiosyncratic craftsmanship with the colloquial, double-edged buzz - good stuff.

This in the second section:

wouldn't hold a teacup
of piss in the ocean of copy. !!!!!

Love it.

The overall, bitchy-wise rummination works so well - has me rereading. You've become a player of the switch hit so internet mindset, & you do it in poems - cool. The play with language really gets me involved, especially when it gives me thoughts to walk away with.

xodj

il poe
Registered User
(4/1/05 8:38 pm)
Reply Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i don't have much to say about your poem that dj didn't already allude to, the first and foremost strength being the wordplay and flexibility of language. I enjoy reading your tighter pieces (like this one), that still dare not forget the range of poetic justice/freedom that is allowed when writing.

What do you do with your stuff after you post it on the sandbox?

-paul

trashpo
Registered User
(4/2/05 10:56 am)
Reply | Edit hey you 2
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
thanks for the nods.


dj, your comment "everyone else did too"...
i get the feel from the box these days that not many people are reading the works of others. now , maybe that's just my own ill ness coming out, but it doesn't feel like many are into creating/keeping this community a community. feels like we've fragmented and scattered
ourselves deliberately. feels like letters back home and the ppl there have moved.

which totally sux for me cuz i'm such a comment whore.
i like interaction. and the state of the board these days makes me sad. so when i post a pome or a rant or musings and get no comments, it hurts. i don't think i'm alone in feeling this way. so yes, when i post here, i want and look foward to comments. it's true i write for myself and i'll write anyway. but i'm tired of being disappointed. when you're up in front of an audience and they ignore you, it becomes disheartening after a while, ya know? you think well, why put myself thru this grief?
i spose that's the beauty of blogs. you don't neccesarily expect response.

anyway, i appreciate the feedback on this from both you and paul, who both seem to maybe want that communal feel yourselves. i guess some of us, loners we may be, still need to merge with the pack. need outside validation, yes, i exist. solopsism's an ego trip i can't sustain...

xol

il poe
Registered User
(4/2/05 1:27 pm)
Reply Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
oh, i still read here, but like you said, feel as if it's scattered, and i hold certain amounts of grief because I do feel like I am partly the catalyst and cause for such dispersion. sigh



noverili
Registered User
(4/2/05 1:52 pm)
Reply
Re: Oh Lynzie!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear L, I suppose you've read the Robert Anton Wilson & co-writer[name escapes me] books on the bugs bunny principle of things? Wherein Fudd features not at all being too dithering. I'm trying hard not to vent my frustration at the way the world unfolds, for who am i to really know what's what, and why. And i certainly am not blessed with the passion to embrace either side of any issue. What seems fair tantalizes, but you can never get a big enough bite of it to be satisfied...well so forth, etc.

head bursting with stuff that needs to be upchucked. soon, soon...

hope you find the time to write some more, always like to read your stuff, but lately haven't had much of a chance to say so. so i'm saying so. you are an important voice in my life.


and take this opportunity to tell you all who read and write here, your stuff impresses itself on me.


and last but least, you know that old saying - the mediocore borrow, the truly great steal.

Steel yourself! fer pete's sake! grid your own loins like a map for future exploration, and so forth.



I believe there must be a few who never make much sense, and i am glad to be such a one, but you L, you're something more essential...


affectionately,

n

eden2000s
Registered User
(4/2/05 7:35 pm)
Reply lynze,
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i'm reading too, just haven't been saying much is all. Sometimes I don't find the words for some reason. But i think people are reading....and enjoying it. and wanting to comment.

this poem leaves me with a sense of "looking at myself" what am i doing kinda thing. art helps people look at themselves look at others. your peoms are different like that, there is a feeling of complex mirroring...

regards

eden



Comment
trashpo
Registered User
(4/17/05 12:32 pm)
Reply | Edit troll
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
for a world close to destruction
it's a beautiful day. i'm on the third
floor looking over rooftops toward
the beach. it's distant. so distant it's
only there in my knowlege, only possible
with a car. public transportation
is a myth. i've got 24 days of laundry
speaking to me from the hall. the frig
and pantry yawn. sleep my lovely

between the sheer curtains, your father
has long abadonned you. sleep my darling
princess, and i'll bring you a perfect
rose, cut from a special bush i've been tending
for months. hang if
from your suncatcher
and watch it prism into primary. you're
moving so far away we'll magically become closer.


when you were first born
i looked for hours
to stuff into your eyes
gave you voice,incohate speeches,
dramas and dances to attend:
made you into wonder, i looked
for hours into your eyes
cooing as if i were a mother born
my lover torn from inside
to swaddle. you never took
my breast, lest it complicate matters
later. your intuition was
wrong. you smoke anyway.



*





the wicked step mom has stolen the faery child
has her pinned to her own father the king's beard
with a safety pin embedded between
her wings, as if made of resin. she sleeps.
it was the apple, bit
it's always the apple and what snake wants
snake gets. a thousand years dormir
banishment from the garden where magnolia
and jasmine drew stingless bees
in the dream found in a fish eye.

in our myth the father is not a king.
in our myth the father is a little pan
without his mirth. in our myth i am not
the troll. but in his myth, these things
are reversed. a mirror, negative.

where lies
the truth
lies lies lie
lay me down
under blue
and gray let golden
dragons keep
them at bay



your brother the prince
of two worlds has come and gone
he delivered the admonishment
of your message to the king
who studiously ignores it.
the troll schemes reward.
the troll understands crime
and criminals so is soft
on punishment. but this time
the troll will time
it right. the king shall fall
into his oubliette thanks
to the nette. you bet.





and what of the loyal page?
the untiring ongoing blank support
written on for sport, used as tort
and damages a manboy holding sandwiches
and coffee for the players? he comes
he stays. he may go anyday that he will
is my deluge of future. the troll breaks
her wooden legs. she is squatter now.
behold her bumbling knighthood, spoken
in the royal third as if i were not
part of this play. the page lovers the troll cum knight cum
nightly come come let's move away...















for this is the princess' story
a talk of glory a walk of gory 21st
century style, emaciated with commerce
fattened on the harvest plow a past
cycling into now, repetition
on a hollow log, perspication in the foul bog,
a story told in blog by blog
the schism and the empty slog
towards forgotten in a facist's fog.
all & nothing
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------





the narrow preset passages constrict
on an ice bone. absent color flows.


when we're admonishing ourselves
we strike at the heart of love

which receeds in a prestidihouse
of cards unfolded like the hot rose

on a perfect trunk. mention a cat
and it's there. mention a dominant

trait and i'll squish it. the wind
flows thru the cardboard hut, so cool

and full of itself, a rattle o baby
a shake of tossed hair.



imitating something to say
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the Lugubrious Boredom of the New Economy


vertiginous "flows" strictly organic
the anachronistic quality
of the word skyscraper


an empty encounter subordinated
traces a chain of obsolescence
a commodity-reflection
of itself. This is also
true of putative resistance
market breeds
necessary energy and definition
traded on tautological balloons




From the perspective of, say,
a worker getting her
pink slip? more of the same.


What would emerge from real emergence?






*



ah the revolution.
forefront in a forethought daily.
he's always coming
up with plans and strategies to make it work.
i think it was disney did
the trick. that or aol. chemical
brothers. he has hope i think
immolation is still free. but what
about the cost of gas?

steal a blowtorch.

if its more of the same i sez
count me out. ya know it's gonna be...
there's a car commercial out there with the name
of every song embedded
in its simulation of wheels.

so then he's all about nietzschean temple building
and i tell him look
it's the temples what i'm worried about.
just no pleasing some people. buried in the system
till the comfort zone collapses
forced into heroism or suicide we pray
a metastasis. heap the gluten on the bratwurst.
i ask him is it any wonder
i can't read the news?
it limns my hopes with cobalt. strontium
31. the quantum rejection. any future
a necktie of hemp. open the box.





















*


dj you asked for a poem. i give you this.






















life science


the leaves on the mock
laurel blister pea green.
my sinuses return. air zips
itself up after the jet. a white
ford pickup with tinted windows
pulls in behind. there is no gun
today. today there are the don
pablos and blimpie's the radiant
food stop and mobil
gas tanks. there is the electronic
remix of nat king cole and a banana
seat bicycle with tall
handlebars. a boy floats along the side
walk wondering what makes shade
so golden in the afternoons .




its been spring for some time
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i'm in a funky mood. toilet overflows
a good morning swamp. i tend to the chickens
with a kick. day lillies bust
thru the layer of pine needles we set
against anthills. damn work
just needs doing
over and over again. all this sprouting--
how dirt blows the wind into small layers
on the tile. where's the ineffable recycle tubes?

my son likes it here cuz he can run.
palms stretch out like the last brush touch
on a canvas that treadmills by. the trees
go from dark green to light green light
at the crosswalk lets him
and his buddy make it to the park
where the season spores
in batleathery balls

but this is all conjecture
if i were himish

maybe he just likes that he can get away
from what passes for home. maybe
he is beginning to feel the decrepitude
maybe i'm projecting again.













*










put on your white coat, baby we're goin dancing



what

fiddling again? these patrician endeavors
while there's lives to be led? when the last
book is written and not read boredom will
triumph anyway. danelions will nod
like a kindergarten flock over mother goose mother
goose will tire of cockle shells
and cook peter pumpkin's wife
into pies she can sell at the fundraiser
in support of our troops & our cheerleaders
who will all need special counseling when she breaks
down on montel with the truth
of the conversion of matter
and the diversion of funds
to the fight against
yankee dog
imperialism
just cuz
she wanted to stir things up a bit
its been growing and growing and not a bit of fruit
on the vine can be eaten it's still green
and not a bit of rest against flood or teenage pregnancy
or the drive by suicides so that she just wants
to take her shawl over her wings stretch and bend
her neck into the shape of some swan
and let the goddamn gods
put her up there in the sky as a cloud.
















*




you want to know if i'm alright now?
i'll tell you anyway
i get by. rains come and seeds
germinate. growth looks
as promising as a field DU'd on the new moon
undercover, a special assignment.
maybe i'll get a job come fall
participating in the harvest.
3 moons and we're fat and happy
on bent stalks and the leavings of locusts.
providence has its privilege.
the sun still sprouts.



i have a stream of indian running thru me
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
people who take over
by force, rule by it. the sun
come down on marjorie st.
we take the guns & mel\\\t them
smelt them into arrows, reinstate
the samauri. properly trained
stun gun warriors

i'm down on the frownin ground sir
i'm muted by your cuffs
i've got a fifth
ammendment some where round here.

yo boy what you think you can shut up
if i want to talk? it's already got worse.
zowee tesla-rize your brain . the chevron on waters

closed just the other day. no more car wash. same
thing can be yours. occupation's a pain in the ass
so i think i'll just blast your ass.



()()






757
im not saying a word. how long
will he talk without input. when
will he need the ping. it's innaresting
to wa\tch. sounds like the south
vs the north. china n stuff. we're about to experience
the civil war with US playin the role
of the confederacy, china playing the union.

postindustrial ironically we're giving them
the methods for our madness. at 3 minutes
he struggles but continues. america
as the evil empire vanquished by the chinese--
who we should pray to for their compassion.
that's if the status quo plays out.

isolation/introversion shld be white ppl's mantra
he asks me a direct question and i don't answer.
he explains my answer. he likes the cleverness
of russian poison. the denial of vodka. says we need
to learn that. russians arent' white ppl. btw. he knows
that. sino caucasion blend. he deosn't know that but
i don't say a word. i admit it

- i nod,

i look

i smile

i kiss but

do you think i talk too much?
now words.i love you2 805

























()()
shhhhhhh


the sun's gone pink
language moves downstairs
gathering like ants on the counter.



it creeps back up
because i trust him to make
the cuban sanwiches.

the fan circulates
wind like the telephone
after a disconnect. the pretzels
are salty as summer's first sea.



unattainable
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it comes on with a deep tiredness
and you remember the stories of colonies
and bloody handkerchiefs. you shake it off
just another virus. your lungs can take this.


your lungs wheeze as you pull dishes
from the sanitizer. you keep trying to hug
a wooden frame as if she's there
beside you. beer tastes like neptune
or the inside of buzz, so you drink it.

meanwhile she's avoiding you
way on the other side of life style
it's the plague, everyone's doing it.
you stack the plates, your breath
a modest indicator. tonight she'll
leave her house with her big pink rollers

in her overnight bag. she's going to momma's.
you wait on the rack, drying. trying
to get better.



my best pome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
always blows
out the window
on the long drive
from there to here


the fog, drastically
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
and in those days
there was much sweeping
of floors, tiles white against
the straw mats we tore
apart with our living

the fan turns perceptibly, dust
gathers like my long hair across
his face in the morning when he's
risen and i rise above him for word
then work, a trip to piss then pass
me a bong.

there are so many similes i can
only show you if you 've seen
the thing. like the christmas trees
which sit atop trunk spears, hosanas
bursting where earth meets sun meets
water in a consistent green firework.
why not just say trimmed palm trees?


in my town there is a gray sky
he takes his family to the aquarium
then shows them the crib where he let
the crackwhore borrow his shoes
she sold them, he's sure. he would never smoke
from her pipe. didn't really want to die
at least not by living simply
to feed the addiction
in relation to the way we are addicts
to each other's acceptance.
redeeming flight we dash thru neglect
regrets are for later when the future didn't change
i meet his mom. she doesn't seem to see
mrs robinson. at the beach we

tease her into the sea
which smacks her in the mouth
then her nose then finally she dives
my daughter solicitously invites
her to the sandbar. wind proves
too much waves dwarf her game
attempts- she retreats, smiling.
i admire her ability to remain innocent.



but //what is //i've been missing
here, tired and useless as spent semen
a change to bitch about> a worry to coddle
hie me to a blog, that swamp is for drowning.
















**

i can lately only write what's directly
in front of me. recollection a commodity
like oil, it boils off in the usage. i remember
fireworks and keywords only. i know
some sense of samadi invaded me last night
where the putrid existed with the sublime-
today is lime on its cadaver.


**

i carry this box with me. loopholes
and catches, tumblers, and keyed entries
one panel unlocks and another closes.
we all breathe the same air, removed by degrees.


my days seem a beadish assortment.
i finger the string and wonder which will thread
and which is only in my head.


my sight fades. hazed among the endless
tracks of dale mabry strip malls that riddle
my county's veins. i put up a wall to deflect
the house of the rising sun as performed by this year's
american idol you too can play that song
for just dollars a video. the same sad show.
i use my a button to splash a force field
against the suv pulling into the suicide lane .
water gathers in a stalling moat, the irate
sonic customer can't cross it. i just want my freezee pleeze.


the writing tires me. so much to explore
but the living inisists. a grilled cheese. a visit
to the doctor's . why does daddy do what he does
and how didn't you see it before you
before .

i could sleep for a lifetime and weary.


the life of a firework
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act
-orwell


the years i sat in silence
in that cell mix meiosis evergreen.
call me mordechai.

canned air canned beans canned
responses. what went on around
and outside it kept from me, hermetic.

yesterday i rang atomic bellows
today i ring the bells of st. george
in a compound enseiged
by those who will not talk to me
- i have my faith in jesus-
and those who would, i cannot

The Defendant violated
the provisions of the Order
at the very least 21 times

but i do

askelon held a little man, craven
and traitor but not i, not i. i'll hold your will
like broken bombs into the light
that seeps venetian thru these bars.



Edited by: trashpo at: 5/6/05 9:01 am


apocalyptic vision post mom's day
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i didn't raise you for this machine
i didn't push you
from my body for this horror
i didn't stay up past midnite pouring
cool water over your burning
forehead to have it cracked by this plague of iron
didn't place flinstones by your corn
flakes every morning for this depleted
uranium incisor didn't read harry potter to you
at bedtime for a month for this car bomb futility
//i didn't raise you for this machine//
i didn't nurse your baseball dreams
for this razor wire patrol. i didn't hold you
with a gun for protection but now that and a helmet
is all you have i didn't raise you
in silence why did i wait
too late
to tell them so?


my crow pome

he tells me a crow flew in his car
caught his gold chain then flexed
into an arrow. he tells me he dreams
of her name then sees it on the cooler
"missing since thursday".
he says that's how he knows crow
is his totem. once he tells me

i see him everywhere: mockiingbird
chased over marsh; scientologist
gathered on the punk trees at the pond; watching
from the phone lines on my morning drive;
weathervaned tail feathered looking in my open
window at dusk. his plumage is black

and shiny, sometimes a wing
feather glistens from the ground
irridescent as oil slicks
in the dump. that's when i hear
her whisper. they descend

beside the trailer, their cries
gather and rise calling
more down till the whole empty lot's
peppered with the strut.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

18 minnit ghazal


more real in the newspapers, backlash and sash to burn
brightly in the sky, a thing of crimson, style, ash, urn, o! burn.

fire on my mind. a bill come due and you sleep.
of what do you dream? come untle my sash, we'll burn.



saturday nite i went to the liquor store looking
for a pair of lips, or a piece of trash to burn.

i regret nothing that i'm doing now. the days seem
inevitable as if my life is destiny's ash to burn.



in spring i think of green things, or the passageways roots
leave behind. i don't forget fall's still or the sour mash burn.



it's no wonder the lenz percieves a final worsening rhythm .
from a to z look at my heart. my love exists in clash and burn.

lunchpome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i walk out and h ave a smoke with tereza
who is always quitting. one thing or another.
she moves her misery with her.
the fire's gonna cost me 8 years. i should pray
for a storm. needle in the vein. vane. vien.
so many mutations on order, form. it might be
an unfolding we're crushing into right now.
like brackish water going over the open lock
flowing past a pressboard that breeds moss
and fungus, life grows on anything that sits still.
the wreck of a model t. the ignoble split of skin.
bacteria rapel the cliff face , collude with air
and sun to stip this new earth of its resources. the cat's
legs stiffen and bulge on the side of the road: real estate
developement in the smell of it. i'm skirting
another side of the mountain, as if it weren't right there
inside me, looking back abysmal.


news from the homeland
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
someone's been whistling all morning
it's 2 minutes till break, maria begins to sing
a spanish song and bea joins in when
she knows the words.
i ask airin if she'd dance in the streets for peace.
she barely knows there's a war but
she likes the idea of a rave.
today at the stress reduction luncheon
i missed it. had to go the pond
and watch the grackles congregate
swooping on the pond reeds like priests
handing out acid.


brreakpome
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
no time of day to do it right tight and bit o bite
on the late drive back to work, lunchtime, everyone's
workin on their grass it comes to me we're farmers
at the tvdriven heart of us. mom and apple pie and a dust
bowl collective. my patch of dirt to squat on.

i live in an apartment and like it that way
i've smelted asphault, i've shriven hay
i'll take the walkup, flowers in the bay

i could aaa bbb this but i wanta flow it out like piss
the rhyming bus is come to my town so i grab it goin outbound
she wanna leave the home to find it, she wanna home
bound her to mind it and if she sings she wonders why not
meet the future before it's gone.

waitin on a call, he said he hadda piss
i could wait here all day but my cigarette i'd miss
he's exactly what i want my son to be, a little wild a little cling. the vid's attracted him, it's oh distracted him
i know this tho i'm here . the brakes in this aren't clear.
i've lost melodic ear. my nicotine buzz rears and i hear
it's hard to quit, one day i'll tap the dip, boon bong down
no i'm no clown i'm working hard here, time to slip.



On Being Told I Shouldn’t Be Afraid of Death
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
oh yeah oh yeah

and who tole you that?

had a friend once
said that same thing
he wasn't afraid to die. i
dunno, sometimes
i think i'm not , then i begin to think about it a bit. not the
deadness, but the dying, the fight
body puts out when spirit
says let go, the whole tunnel and light thing.
i mean when i'm dead it won't matter.
but while i'm still alive...well, i want
to be. justin says

think if you came in and found us
all murdered
i says well, ok. then i'd want
to die. but you guys
wouldn't care anymore
ciroran reminds me that we always
kill ourselves too late

my daughter believes in ghosts.
besides what are those fleet curtains
that draw across my skin
piling one atop another memories
of a rose and rose and rose
we drop into the ground
in a movie that;s faded
and now how could you want to leave
how could you want to stay
the fear is in shredding
that occurs this very minute
grasping for water with fingers
clinging to muons with flypaper
and your daughter's eyes
with anything less than full attention