I’ve got a little black book with my poems in
I’ve got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in
When I’m a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from
I’ve got electric light
And I’ve got second sight
I’ve got amazing powers of observation
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There’ll be nobody home
I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm
And I’ve got the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers
I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain
I’ve got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains
I’ve got wild staring eyes
I’ve got a strong urge to fly
But I’ve got nowhere to fly to
Ooooh Babe when I pick up the phone
There’s still nobody home
I’ve got a pair of Gohills boots
And I’ve got fading roots.
A journey already in progress. The entirety of my life. One long, complex series of interactions, causes, effects, thoughts, words, deeds, accomplishments, and failures. All leading to this present point in space-time where it fans out ahead of me like a prism splitting light. Possibilities in an endless spectrum.
I read somewhere that thinking too much about the past causes depression, and thinking too much of the future causes anxiety. There really is no other time like now. The present, the source of all futures. And yet, we all too often drift off to the past in sorrow, obsess over possible futures in dread, or, disappear behind the thought processes needed to navigate a path from the former to the latter without focusing on either for too long.
Maiden of celestial skies,
Your soul dances with mine.
Longing for your sweet caress
On my waiting and wanting flesh.
Visceral yearning of love so deep
Even the wide seas have envy.
1’s and 0’s Composed on Android
A song in my heart loud as thunder
Moving soul upwards with elation.
An emotion, felt for the first time,
Neverending amazing joy.
Dream becomes ecstatic reality.
Adored equal of a grateful soul.
Joined by Fate, two become one
Opening wide, paradise’s gate.
She works a hustle as old as sex,
Stroke my ego, then stroke me.
The con goes like a cursed hex,
Now mostly words. No action, see?
Promise of love hidden in hate,
Keep the money flowing on in.
Perhaps she’ll dress for a date,
That is, so long as she sins.
Her desires fulfilled, she holds out,
Maybe another has her other need.
She lies, cajoles, and offers a pout
Turning one to another with greed.
Not just con, but survival skill,
She plays them against the other.
No morals, sheerly her own will
Necessity and lust are the mother.