white wooden crosses at the highway side
hearing poor man's other bands
over the radiowaves in rusted cars
we sang along anyway
making cigarette burns in the backseats
i felt a little more rough around the edges
the shortest songs remain sweetest
the drive being very long
pages fly past in violent gusts
miles go by, a hundred feet a second

+

morning doves in mid june
children sit in backyards
absorbing soft cool green grass
forever watching airplane smoke trails
alone and being nine years old

+

after eighteen hundred garage sale signs
and thirty six cigarettes all over this city
fields forever move through flat land
all the centipedes and transparent arachnids
one more cigarette. swamp land filled
with cynicism, shaved legs and let downs
having found true reasoning
and relevance behind hospitals
the sun seems brightest. but still lacking.
having hope, but no immediate future
no new year's resolution. it's june.
next month is july. and onto august.
i've received a gift, which i am ungrateful for.
locked lips
with pleasant memories. tastes fading in my mouth.
smelling smoke. the residues of reconciliation
the air is never crisp or fresh.
never revitalizing, and my throat hurts.
i've planned my own death so many times
with no real intentions,
those were always given at random.
very earnest. truth never to a fault,
only fears of misinterpretation
ever bothered us. ever stopped me.
there's no use now. only honesty remains
a constant in my life. all i have to give.
my only real hope.
wishing this were fine. that solitude is fine.
the capacity to live alone. thoughts to self.
it's not. it is. there's nothing i can do.

+

heaven help us
hands never seemed so empty
stomaches never seemed so full
of ice
heads filled with heavy thoughts
filled up to the feet
back again, and everything is fine
in larger pictures
of cascading colours and numbers
i gave up time and talk
the days are overflowing with bad ideas
and beer bottles
nights no different
unfolding
waiting for the weeks to pass
when calendars are useless
i can only slightly think in present terms
my thoughts are somewhere else


=

raisin bran gets very soggy once you stop paying mind to it.
let's let this one slide. just this once. and never speak of it again.

*****