Sleep Walking
Hey mama; hey mama can I have this thing, Mickey put that back boy I’m gonna slap your ass, Hey mama; hey mama can I have one of those, Boy get over here you’ve got to try on these clothes.
Mama I really wanted that electric guitar, Son that wasn’t a real guitar it was just a toy, But ma I wanna learn how to be a star, Sometimes I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you boy.
Hey mama can we stop at Kmart and buy me a record, Ok honey but we can only get one, Hey mama I can’t decide; can I get both, I said just one; don’t argue are you won't get any.
Ok I’ll get this one; ma have you heard this on the radio, I’m not sure; tell me how does it go, It goes hey mama can I have this thing, Yeah that sounds familiar; my little angel you sure can sing.
Honey it’s time for you to go to bed, If you can get that silly little song out of your head, Mama I wish I could get that other record too, Honey I’ll get it for you next week if you do good in school, Mama when I grow up I’m gonna buy me everything, Baby I’m sure you will; good night sweet dreams.
Mama I really wanted that electric guitar, Son that wasn’t a real guitar it was just a toy, But ma I wanna learn how to be a star, Sometimes I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you boy.
Hey mama can we stop at Kmart and buy me a record, Ok honey but we can only get one, Hey mama I can’t decide; can I get both, I said just one; don’t argue are you won't get any.
Ok I’ll get this one; ma have you heard this on the radio, I’m not sure; tell me how does it go, It goes hey mama can I have this thing, Yeah that sounds familiar; my little angel you sure can sing.
Honey it’s time for you to go to bed, If you can get that silly little song out of your head, Mama I wish I could get that other record too, Honey I’ll get it for you next week if you do good in school, Mama when I grow up I’m gonna buy me everything, Baby I’m sure you will; good night sweet dreams.
0ct. 98
Broken Bird
You don’t have to have wings to want to learn to fly, You don’t have to doubt the truth to believe in a lie, He was his own creation in his view from the treetops, He could see way down Paragon Mills past where the farmland stops, Early morning June, The world was a mystic presence, The cool bark of the tree against his skin; he studied nature's lessons, Till one day practicing flight the fated fall occurred, And he woke up on the ground feeling like a broken bird.
Since that day he has suffered from fear of flying, And he has been a hard-sell on what the rest of the world was buying, The world seem to lose its meaning in expressing its brutal truth, He had a head full of wonders and sorrows and a heart full of age and youth, And there were ruffled feathers in the nest because he never needed validation, There was a dictionary for by the book communication, But he was a different sort of flesh in need of an undefinable word, In hope that the broken sky was in need of a broken bird.
Radio like the voice of some god kept the world in tune, Ages spent in the rhythm of his room, He got so good at losing himself he had no need to hide, He felt like the truth needed an excuse so he just lied.
Was there some kind of vengeance or just an unhealthy curiosity, Sometimes his meekness filled him with an impotent ferocity, Tears fell hot; and the sobs nobody ever heard, BB gun in his hands; crying over a broken bird.
Since that day he has suffered from fear of flying, And he has been a hard-sell on what the rest of the world was buying, The world seem to lose its meaning in expressing its brutal truth, He had a head full of wonders and sorrows and a heart full of age and youth, And there were ruffled feathers in the nest because he never needed validation, There was a dictionary for by the book communication, But he was a different sort of flesh in need of an undefinable word, In hope that the broken sky was in need of a broken bird.
Radio like the voice of some god kept the world in tune, Ages spent in the rhythm of his room, He got so good at losing himself he had no need to hide, He felt like the truth needed an excuse so he just lied.
Was there some kind of vengeance or just an unhealthy curiosity, Sometimes his meekness filled him with an impotent ferocity, Tears fell hot; and the sobs nobody ever heard, BB gun in his hands; crying over a broken bird.
Nov. 98
Nearly Nothing
Upon the dissolution; playground wonder; classroom lust, As he grinds his guiding star into stardust, There was a teacher whose lips were what they taught, He unearthed a vision from this trifling sight; so divinely wrought, Flights of fancy; on the wings of a beat he sung treasures, Honeysuckle intoxication; enigmatic pleasures.
The summer's heat just seems to melt the spring, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
Days of gravity; trying to focus his awkward walk, Listen and try to hear a meaning behind all this spoon fed talk, One smile was good for ten dreams of her lips, The stutter in his soul played upon his tongue; rapture's record skips, She could stand right next to you and still manage to be out of reach, He failed to learn the lessons that he forced her to teach.
He wants so badly to get lost in a place where everyone can find him, A new orbit with only a blonde framed sun to remind him.
The first time his finger touched the string, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
And so the fantasy gets mixed in with the solid earth, He starts to weigh the cost of a dream against what it’s worth, Ambivalence plays the part of a nurse who is dying, Alarm clock screams usher days of undoing; just trying, He plays the part of a victim with a lawyer's finesse, And every morning's rising weather brings a new interpretation of success.
And so he trips over the bride searching for his honeymoon, It wouldn’t have ended way to late had it not started way to soon.
The symphony of a first kiss turns into a hollow ring, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
The first few seconds of realization drifting from a dream, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
The summer's heat just seems to melt the spring, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
Days of gravity; trying to focus his awkward walk, Listen and try to hear a meaning behind all this spoon fed talk, One smile was good for ten dreams of her lips, The stutter in his soul played upon his tongue; rapture's record skips, She could stand right next to you and still manage to be out of reach, He failed to learn the lessons that he forced her to teach.
He wants so badly to get lost in a place where everyone can find him, A new orbit with only a blonde framed sun to remind him.
The first time his finger touched the string, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
And so the fantasy gets mixed in with the solid earth, He starts to weigh the cost of a dream against what it’s worth, Ambivalence plays the part of a nurse who is dying, Alarm clock screams usher days of undoing; just trying, He plays the part of a victim with a lawyer's finesse, And every morning's rising weather brings a new interpretation of success.
And so he trips over the bride searching for his honeymoon, It wouldn’t have ended way to late had it not started way to soon.
The symphony of a first kiss turns into a hollow ring, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
The first few seconds of realization drifting from a dream, Nearly nothing; almost anything.
Nov. 98
Picture Perfect Misfit
So you just swallow your drink, Call it a cure for this highway, Grinding gears of misery; think, The future could happen today.
And your faith hits the ground with a thud, The red of her lips looks just like blood, The sugar coated rain bleeds the flood, Your ego's horse is a stud.
Close your eyes and count the bankers, The numbers of speech divide the stutter, Spilled by evening's oil tankers, The engine of night; hear it sputter.
Her high heels make a clicking show ghost, Your tongue makes a bane of its boast, Time parades from calendar to coast, Heavens are mapped from the hype to the host.
It must be further out than it is in, Traveling with Cain and his pocket sin, Feed these fundamental beliefs with supplemental fantasies, To set the bait in the mousetrap of vanities, Contort the rage into an eleventh hour joke, Put a fix on that leak till it’s as good as broke, Like a lawyer defending a criminal, The broken bone of a handshake is seminal, But it’s about as tangible as an atom in a cannonball, The logic of banging your head against a wall, So you feel so at home with this alien ache, Reality dialed up in degrees of sanction-fake, You betray your faith in yourself and masturbate, Put the blame on that bitch time for making you wait, With the moon in your voice and the stars in your vocabulary, You stumble into focus searching for sanctuary.
It’s easy to hide a pain that doesn’t really hurt, Glass is breakable; but why bother; you can see right thru it, With all the virtuosity it takes to button your shirt, You pretend that you didn’t know how to undo it.
Let darkness define your losses, Words expressed; fuel the pollution, Proud martyrs bare their crosses, Gods of problem and solution.
A virgin of your lust; she goes unknown, To be a bride to the church of the bone, Her image is just the myth of a loan, Her voice rumored current of the phone.
Sunsets and alarm clock rising, Limp to the stand with an erection, The laughs and the jibes; not surprising, It’s just the blood of beauty’s affection.
The colors of a picture perfect misfit, All that’s lost he’s determined to find it, He seeks justice; determined to blind it, Though the contract of fate he’s already signed it.
And your faith hits the ground with a thud, The red of her lips looks just like blood, The sugar coated rain bleeds the flood, Your ego's horse is a stud.
Close your eyes and count the bankers, The numbers of speech divide the stutter, Spilled by evening's oil tankers, The engine of night; hear it sputter.
Her high heels make a clicking show ghost, Your tongue makes a bane of its boast, Time parades from calendar to coast, Heavens are mapped from the hype to the host.
It must be further out than it is in, Traveling with Cain and his pocket sin, Feed these fundamental beliefs with supplemental fantasies, To set the bait in the mousetrap of vanities, Contort the rage into an eleventh hour joke, Put a fix on that leak till it’s as good as broke, Like a lawyer defending a criminal, The broken bone of a handshake is seminal, But it’s about as tangible as an atom in a cannonball, The logic of banging your head against a wall, So you feel so at home with this alien ache, Reality dialed up in degrees of sanction-fake, You betray your faith in yourself and masturbate, Put the blame on that bitch time for making you wait, With the moon in your voice and the stars in your vocabulary, You stumble into focus searching for sanctuary.
It’s easy to hide a pain that doesn’t really hurt, Glass is breakable; but why bother; you can see right thru it, With all the virtuosity it takes to button your shirt, You pretend that you didn’t know how to undo it.
Let darkness define your losses, Words expressed; fuel the pollution, Proud martyrs bare their crosses, Gods of problem and solution.
A virgin of your lust; she goes unknown, To be a bride to the church of the bone, Her image is just the myth of a loan, Her voice rumored current of the phone.
Sunsets and alarm clock rising, Limp to the stand with an erection, The laughs and the jibes; not surprising, It’s just the blood of beauty’s affection.
The colors of a picture perfect misfit, All that’s lost he’s determined to find it, He seeks justice; determined to blind it, Though the contract of fate he’s already signed it.
Nov. 98
The Dreamer's Landlord
She’s sweeping out the dust that has collected, In all the sleepy eyes of the morning's apathy, Every TV; every mirror has been infected, With a blindness only first born sons can see, Something has been forgotten and is nagging, Like a sock turned under at the toe, Like the history of dreams we’ve been dragging, It’s just something you're sure you ought to know.
Meanwhile nothing at all is happening anywhere else, though your convinced that it is, We just never know what to do with ourselves, The focus of the camera’s blush; that’s show biz.
Smaller than a gnat; this caretaker of dreams, Ah but the world is a gnat; hung in Heaven's hide, Only the void of Virgo is what it seems, One drop of water lost in the moon fed tide, Over in the building where the landlord's lover lives, There’s a woman on her back in a pool; swimming meltdowns, She’s got the kind of blue only the makeup artist gives, She and her dildo are busy breeding ghost towns.
The tongue of the satellite stutters in revelation, Our hero’s gut digests the Beetle bones, And desire mixes with faith to brew desperation, Dead and dying gods; prayers and karmic loans.
With deadpan significance the night chews up another day, Until time is all that’s left of the meaning, The landlord gives you two choices; move or pay, And every building he owns is leaning, He gets his clothes from the butcher's tailor, Gets most of his best sex from his girlfriend's mother, He’s got the heart of a prisoner and the soul of a jailer, Behind your back he’s your ex-wife; to your face he’s your brother.
There are eleven people moving with the eye of the hurricane, Where the weather is like the hungry stomach of a lamb.
And you have to water your thirst with a fistful of rain, But you’d have to give everything you have; just to give a damn.
The sun gives shape to the same old new world everyday, That’s the landlord's deceit; he just rents the light, But the caretaker; she knows the wingless way, And how to separate the yoke of day from the egg of night, Something other than the what could be is turning her vision, There goes the landlord's lover; she hates that bitch, Who moves like a piston while she drags her indecision, Across the aching heap of Virgo and the butcher's ditch.
Black and white dreamers are being hauled into labor camps, It’s hard to find a reason to live that won't kill you, The landlord's lover; she dreams false labor cramps, Owe the price of nothing and she will bill you.
Inside some mind's eye in need of a lens, The landlord is constructing gods and revising sins, Incognito seasons build upon the arrogance of his causality, And elevates this pulp fiction to high tragedy, But the caretaker she continues; all on a beggar's wages, She is always crushing grapes and building stages, And the blue lady she wants to take the landlord's lover's place, But it will never happen because she’s got a mirror for a face, The landlord he doesn’t believe in the butcher's charity, Just the blindness of the dreamer's clarity.
Meanwhile nothing at all is happening anywhere else, though your convinced that it is, We just never know what to do with ourselves, The focus of the camera’s blush; that’s show biz.
Smaller than a gnat; this caretaker of dreams, Ah but the world is a gnat; hung in Heaven's hide, Only the void of Virgo is what it seems, One drop of water lost in the moon fed tide, Over in the building where the landlord's lover lives, There’s a woman on her back in a pool; swimming meltdowns, She’s got the kind of blue only the makeup artist gives, She and her dildo are busy breeding ghost towns.
The tongue of the satellite stutters in revelation, Our hero’s gut digests the Beetle bones, And desire mixes with faith to brew desperation, Dead and dying gods; prayers and karmic loans.
With deadpan significance the night chews up another day, Until time is all that’s left of the meaning, The landlord gives you two choices; move or pay, And every building he owns is leaning, He gets his clothes from the butcher's tailor, Gets most of his best sex from his girlfriend's mother, He’s got the heart of a prisoner and the soul of a jailer, Behind your back he’s your ex-wife; to your face he’s your brother.
There are eleven people moving with the eye of the hurricane, Where the weather is like the hungry stomach of a lamb.
And you have to water your thirst with a fistful of rain, But you’d have to give everything you have; just to give a damn.
The sun gives shape to the same old new world everyday, That’s the landlord's deceit; he just rents the light, But the caretaker; she knows the wingless way, And how to separate the yoke of day from the egg of night, Something other than the what could be is turning her vision, There goes the landlord's lover; she hates that bitch, Who moves like a piston while she drags her indecision, Across the aching heap of Virgo and the butcher's ditch.
Black and white dreamers are being hauled into labor camps, It’s hard to find a reason to live that won't kill you, The landlord's lover; she dreams false labor cramps, Owe the price of nothing and she will bill you.
Inside some mind's eye in need of a lens, The landlord is constructing gods and revising sins, Incognito seasons build upon the arrogance of his causality, And elevates this pulp fiction to high tragedy, But the caretaker she continues; all on a beggar's wages, She is always crushing grapes and building stages, And the blue lady she wants to take the landlord's lover's place, But it will never happen because she’s got a mirror for a face, The landlord he doesn’t believe in the butcher's charity, Just the blindness of the dreamer's clarity.
0ct. 98
New Jerusalem Machinery
And then the pulpit of the eclipse device, The mystical chant from the wizard of paradise, The hum of unlearned languages stifle tongues, Breathing beauty’s perfumed soul conquers lungs, The order of the planets behind Heavens eyes, Lead to the fertile valley of a thousand why’s, Corinthian columns of the palace challenge every bluff, Deities of the bone for the love of star built stuff, And the future's ghost caught in the lure of the landlord's weather, And a broken bird trying to learn to forgive the feather, The whirling; whining grind of viable motion, Metabolic engine turning gears of devotion, The placebo of chance puts an ache in the exhaust, Magnificently moving in the direction of lost, The heat of a light drains the blood of a shadow, As soft cylinders sing the lament of the fuel flow, And the road doesn’t know how to mirror the map, So the key to the kingdom is the blueprint of the trap, Scaffold of the night; construction staggers clockwise, The organic fabric of myth to mechanize.
And then the burden of the bone laden spirit, Only the lay of the landscape to steer it, Manifested monument; the life of deeds, The sex in the schism of the world that breeds, The hero claims a vision to shape his blindness, But the gods deny the mortal coil this kindness, So in the twilight the colors merge to muck and magic, And the Earth recites the engine of the tragic, Ancient rivers baptize the reborn rain, As clouds of wonder advertise their bane, The hum increasing to an infinite primal roar, Piston plays the martyr to the motion's whore, Enchanted and lust driven by her supple destination, And so the genius of hunger makes a meal of temptation, Abstract motive in search of the concrete cure, Thoughts incognito; the stage props of action pure, Waiting is a hunger that will forever feed, The loins of the harvest and the god city seed, Blond hair and white dress; accidental goddess frame, The way back to glory thru the wreckage of this shame.
And then the madness of the moon descending jury, The laws amended by the engine's fury, Running like watercolors into a desperate rainbow, The sky whispers omens of what the Earth will never know, Compass or clock; is it a place or a time, Judge of engineers meddle in the Eden of crime, Real estate angels lead the holy to the dead, False prophet bankers invest in god’s shrunken head, Bibles and bullets of atomic renaissance waste, The rider a fast victim of where the road has been placed, As the serpent glides thru the graveyard of antique constellations, The cartographer of souls traces dead end destinations, Back to the origin; the seed; the seminal alter of ego, The eye of the sacrifice the knife influenced by moon-glow, And now beauty; the blood of a memory ebbs out of season, The engine rebuilt by the bloodstained hands of reason, Anonymous epitaphs await the unanimous ode, Now all circuits are tied and tangled in bootlegger's code, New Jerusalem machinery choking on bone and rust, The city; the engine; the rider; united in dust.
Nov.-Dec. 98
And then the burden of the bone laden spirit, Only the lay of the landscape to steer it, Manifested monument; the life of deeds, The sex in the schism of the world that breeds, The hero claims a vision to shape his blindness, But the gods deny the mortal coil this kindness, So in the twilight the colors merge to muck and magic, And the Earth recites the engine of the tragic, Ancient rivers baptize the reborn rain, As clouds of wonder advertise their bane, The hum increasing to an infinite primal roar, Piston plays the martyr to the motion's whore, Enchanted and lust driven by her supple destination, And so the genius of hunger makes a meal of temptation, Abstract motive in search of the concrete cure, Thoughts incognito; the stage props of action pure, Waiting is a hunger that will forever feed, The loins of the harvest and the god city seed, Blond hair and white dress; accidental goddess frame, The way back to glory thru the wreckage of this shame.
And then the madness of the moon descending jury, The laws amended by the engine's fury, Running like watercolors into a desperate rainbow, The sky whispers omens of what the Earth will never know, Compass or clock; is it a place or a time, Judge of engineers meddle in the Eden of crime, Real estate angels lead the holy to the dead, False prophet bankers invest in god’s shrunken head, Bibles and bullets of atomic renaissance waste, The rider a fast victim of where the road has been placed, As the serpent glides thru the graveyard of antique constellations, The cartographer of souls traces dead end destinations, Back to the origin; the seed; the seminal alter of ego, The eye of the sacrifice the knife influenced by moon-glow, And now beauty; the blood of a memory ebbs out of season, The engine rebuilt by the bloodstained hands of reason, Anonymous epitaphs await the unanimous ode, Now all circuits are tied and tangled in bootlegger's code, New Jerusalem machinery choking on bone and rust, The city; the engine; the rider; united in dust.
Nov.-Dec. 98
Shipwrecked on Columbus Day
Untutored dreams wake to the alarm clock mentor, The moon lingers in the morning sky like a ghost on trial, Like an assumed innocent that is guilty all the while.
He feels the labor of the wheels thru a landscape; perpetual winter, That brooding moon haunts the face of every direction, He stares into it with an abstract affection.
This surreal scene mutates into a realism grotesque, Sobering spectacle and caffeine slowly rouse the sleepy rage, The heavens in audience to the new world's tragic stage.
Every day’s slow burden a casually epic conquest, Sidewalk extras; jackhammer applause urge the bottomless commotion, He assumes his duties with a heretic's devotion.
Absolved with a paycheck and you're made in the USA, Shipwrecked on Columbus day.
All the fury of creation shapes his fist of destruction, Sometimes the walls just look like they want to come down, But this isotonic friction just builds the muscles of this town.
Hell's shadow is raw material in the paradise of production, He sees the snake quit the den of Eden’s creditors, They invest there capital in bigger and better predators.
He makes his route by the woes and wonder shocked, His troubled pulse keeps time with the traffic lights, Red; yellow and green the engine's only rights.
Sidewalk shoppers with TV eyes; the windows wonder-stocked, A truck with a poster; have you seen me; he knows he has some place, The reflection in the windshield superimposes his face.
Dying by the book but the ambulance is on the way, Shipwrecked on Columbus day.
Asleep at the wheel; dreaming that he’s going somewhere, Can’t begin to face the hideous fact that he’s already there, His thoughts an oasis to this barren dreamed-out desert, Alive with the tease; the motored bodies of the fuck-flirt, Every nerve starved vision embedded In the numbness of the concrete, The highway's bravado just a coast to coast dead end street, He’s just another jilted passenger with a longing so vivid it’s fragile, Decomposition of the will goes unnoticed; it’s so gradual, The story on every stranger's tongue reads like a ghost written cliche, Different version; different description of the one that got away, And change is dragged like an anchor by a one-joke-judge and a laugh-track jury, The laws of futility renegotiate the fury, He feels like a victim with no killer's face to accuse, The first rule of free trade slavery is learn to nourish what you abuse, He sleeps every night dreaming the American dream just to wake to the American nightmare, Last night he was a Rodin come to life asking for directions to nowhere.
There’s no end to how lost you can be when you don’t know the way, Shipwrecked on Columbus day.
He feels the labor of the wheels thru a landscape; perpetual winter, That brooding moon haunts the face of every direction, He stares into it with an abstract affection.
This surreal scene mutates into a realism grotesque, Sobering spectacle and caffeine slowly rouse the sleepy rage, The heavens in audience to the new world's tragic stage.
Every day’s slow burden a casually epic conquest, Sidewalk extras; jackhammer applause urge the bottomless commotion, He assumes his duties with a heretic's devotion.
Absolved with a paycheck and you're made in the USA, Shipwrecked on Columbus day.
All the fury of creation shapes his fist of destruction, Sometimes the walls just look like they want to come down, But this isotonic friction just builds the muscles of this town.
Hell's shadow is raw material in the paradise of production, He sees the snake quit the den of Eden’s creditors, They invest there capital in bigger and better predators.
He makes his route by the woes and wonder shocked, His troubled pulse keeps time with the traffic lights, Red; yellow and green the engine's only rights.
Sidewalk shoppers with TV eyes; the windows wonder-stocked, A truck with a poster; have you seen me; he knows he has some place, The reflection in the windshield superimposes his face.
Dying by the book but the ambulance is on the way, Shipwrecked on Columbus day.
Asleep at the wheel; dreaming that he’s going somewhere, Can’t begin to face the hideous fact that he’s already there, His thoughts an oasis to this barren dreamed-out desert, Alive with the tease; the motored bodies of the fuck-flirt, Every nerve starved vision embedded In the numbness of the concrete, The highway's bravado just a coast to coast dead end street, He’s just another jilted passenger with a longing so vivid it’s fragile, Decomposition of the will goes unnoticed; it’s so gradual, The story on every stranger's tongue reads like a ghost written cliche, Different version; different description of the one that got away, And change is dragged like an anchor by a one-joke-judge and a laugh-track jury, The laws of futility renegotiate the fury, He feels like a victim with no killer's face to accuse, The first rule of free trade slavery is learn to nourish what you abuse, He sleeps every night dreaming the American dream just to wake to the American nightmare, Last night he was a Rodin come to life asking for directions to nowhere.
There’s no end to how lost you can be when you don’t know the way, Shipwrecked on Columbus day.
Dec. 98
Angry Middle Aged Man
Sometimes I’d just like to die, Sometimes I’d just like to live, Sometimes.
Caught the bullet between my teeth, Can’t believe that I have lived to be so meek, I do the impossible everyday, I wanna know what I’m worth so I give myself away, I’m so sick of living out this death, Another hopeless sigh takes away my breath, I do the job of making money for the suit, Work my ass off just to piss in my boot.
Sometimes I’d just like to live.
My wife and family mean the world to me, But sometimes I just want to set myself free, Every man out there knows just what I mean, There’s something just too mechanized about the whole damn scene, A life based on some economic mirage, A good nest egg and a two car garage, I’m a loving man but I often feel so full of hate, At the mercy of a merciless world and a bottomless fate.
Sometimes I’d just like to live.
I saw this little blond outside Burger King, She seemed to ignore my wedding ring, Not the kind of girl that makes your dreams come true; but hey, I bet she could make a few bad ones go away, So I drove her around in circles for a while, And then we parked and did the miracle mile.
The world didn’t come to pieces; in fact it seemed more tightly bound, Our answers may be fiat but the world is relentlessly round, So with more to do than suicide could ever undo, You just learn to live with the same old fact of nothing new.
Caught the bullet between my teeth, Can’t believe that I have lived to be so meek, I do the impossible everyday, I wanna know what I’m worth so I give myself away, I’m so sick of living out this death, Another hopeless sigh takes away my breath, I do the job of making money for the suit, Work my ass off just to piss in my boot.
Sometimes I’d just like to live.
My wife and family mean the world to me, But sometimes I just want to set myself free, Every man out there knows just what I mean, There’s something just too mechanized about the whole damn scene, A life based on some economic mirage, A good nest egg and a two car garage, I’m a loving man but I often feel so full of hate, At the mercy of a merciless world and a bottomless fate.
Sometimes I’d just like to live.
I saw this little blond outside Burger King, She seemed to ignore my wedding ring, Not the kind of girl that makes your dreams come true; but hey, I bet she could make a few bad ones go away, So I drove her around in circles for a while, And then we parked and did the miracle mile.
The world didn’t come to pieces; in fact it seemed more tightly bound, Our answers may be fiat but the world is relentlessly round, So with more to do than suicide could ever undo, You just learn to live with the same old fact of nothing new.
Sept. 98
Casual Venus
She washed up on the shore just as he was contemplating the sea, She had the shape of the now and the sense of what could be, She took her stride down the beech; her verbatim beauty unaware, Her eyes never betrayed her direction but she knew he was there, The sky seemed to fawn; the world a snake to her will, The temptation he nourished hurt bad enough to cauterize the kill, So he tracked the aching arch of her footprints to the palace of her flesh, Bit into the rotten apple of the world and the fruit of her tongue made it fresh.
With all the wonder it takes to bring the moon into her eyes of Eden, Your heart could leak from your soul before you even knew you were bleeding, Now time is out of sync and season with the habit of his plans, But he gets the frst taste of his pride as he sees her body strolling down the street of any man's, She moves like some new direction that has never seen the ruin of travel, Distance is the price you pay for this motion as you watch her myth unravel, But he suffers the dreamless regions of this orbit for this perigeal ecstasy, This defeat is like a childhood it conquers so casually.
And he stumbles; dances; falls and flies, Performs a dream behind her closed eyes, Attends the banquet of her gourmet sighs.
A rush of stars form a galaxy by her laws, Where he’s careful to avoid the trick of her claws, Destiny disfigured in his passion's pause.
Her beauty could cure the very nature of disease, But it’s just a sky draped in a rainbow's tease, Definitively innocent of the brutal art; to please.
She is ordained by the minister's of his desire, To turn the voice of his conscience into a liar, Certain that burning is the logic of fire.
He gave up his bed of solid Earth for her interpretation of his dream, She turned the water of his wine into the heat of his steam, She taught his unschooled passion the nature of its calling, She resolved his fear of flight with an angels dread of falling.
He has been inside of her; seen thru her eyes; spent his flame and fury in her grace, Washed her feet in scents and oils and cracked the mirror of her face, Filtered light and focused-shadow; anticipating; the next exit wound he can leave in, He treats his belief in her like a toy; seeks her savage kiss when in need of something to believe in.
With all the wonder it takes to bring the moon into her eyes of Eden, Your heart could leak from your soul before you even knew you were bleeding, Now time is out of sync and season with the habit of his plans, But he gets the frst taste of his pride as he sees her body strolling down the street of any man's, She moves like some new direction that has never seen the ruin of travel, Distance is the price you pay for this motion as you watch her myth unravel, But he suffers the dreamless regions of this orbit for this perigeal ecstasy, This defeat is like a childhood it conquers so casually.
And he stumbles; dances; falls and flies, Performs a dream behind her closed eyes, Attends the banquet of her gourmet sighs.
A rush of stars form a galaxy by her laws, Where he’s careful to avoid the trick of her claws, Destiny disfigured in his passion's pause.
Her beauty could cure the very nature of disease, But it’s just a sky draped in a rainbow's tease, Definitively innocent of the brutal art; to please.
She is ordained by the minister's of his desire, To turn the voice of his conscience into a liar, Certain that burning is the logic of fire.
He gave up his bed of solid Earth for her interpretation of his dream, She turned the water of his wine into the heat of his steam, She taught his unschooled passion the nature of its calling, She resolved his fear of flight with an angels dread of falling.
He has been inside of her; seen thru her eyes; spent his flame and fury in her grace, Washed her feet in scents and oils and cracked the mirror of her face, Filtered light and focused-shadow; anticipating; the next exit wound he can leave in, He treats his belief in her like a toy; seeks her savage kiss when in need of something to believe in.
Dec. 98
For Rebecca
Exit Harmony
Dreaming is the shortest distance between two points, It’s always been the pulp of dreams that oiled his joints, He always thought he heard voices in the storm of electric guitars, But the sky feels heavy and over burdened with stars, And his life just feels like rent to the dreamer's landlord, And a monthly statement of what his debt can’t afford, He still feels more like an idea than a meaning, A movie of the world that suffers private screening.
Trying not to force the why; so he can just be, Trying to achieve exit harmony.
Existence seems just a ground for mapping limitations, And this world a mechanism for real imitations, And he the mediator of flesh and flame, He gives a writer's block autopsy to what’s beyond the bones of a name, Nervous-odds-spectator to the gallop of the days, God's placenta rainbow trying to find a will for the ways.
He cannot just play soft into the ease, He lives to bleed electric in the tease.
Turning out the lights so he has to shine to see, Trying to achieve exit harmony.
The love; the love; the love he has; trying to make it breath, The pain; the pain; the pain he has; wake it from this death.
Miscellaneous rage; the physical bride of his church, Sometimes in trance to the blind rhythm of the search, Just to lose the flavor of this bitter root on his tongue, Learn to grow as old as regret in world that’s eternally young.
And he wanted his muse to be more of his lover than his whore, But the only thing he really wants from her is more, When he finally lays for that big sleep that chases no dream, He just hopes to feel the ripeness of the scheme.
Trying to pull the heavens down to this reality, Give the flesh back to the word for exit harmony.
Trying not to force the why; so he can just be, Trying to achieve exit harmony.
Existence seems just a ground for mapping limitations, And this world a mechanism for real imitations, And he the mediator of flesh and flame, He gives a writer's block autopsy to what’s beyond the bones of a name, Nervous-odds-spectator to the gallop of the days, God's placenta rainbow trying to find a will for the ways.
He cannot just play soft into the ease, He lives to bleed electric in the tease.
Turning out the lights so he has to shine to see, Trying to achieve exit harmony.
The love; the love; the love he has; trying to make it breath, The pain; the pain; the pain he has; wake it from this death.
Miscellaneous rage; the physical bride of his church, Sometimes in trance to the blind rhythm of the search, Just to lose the flavor of this bitter root on his tongue, Learn to grow as old as regret in world that’s eternally young.
And he wanted his muse to be more of his lover than his whore, But the only thing he really wants from her is more, When he finally lays for that big sleep that chases no dream, He just hopes to feel the ripeness of the scheme.
Trying to pull the heavens down to this reality, Give the flesh back to the word for exit harmony.
Dec. 98
Released March 1, 1999. All songs Composed, Performed and Recorded by M.M.
