Alone At A Diner: Writing Songs

If You Only Knew

Sleeping in the corner

And dreaming in a bookcase

Finger painting a spell

And spinning a gypsy tall tale

I came to you and asked you a question

But you spilled your gypsy drink

And laughed to yourself

Laughing in symbols

And calling on saints

Speaking through the cobblestone streets

But always walking in your boots

I’d like to think you knew my name

But the acid rain pouring from your lips

Told the truth.

The road and the leaves are the only places for me

The leaves and the road are the only places for me

A Girl

She is alone

And so am I

When I see her I know

We are like one another

 But what she doesn’t say

I do

And it is almost as painful

As her

 And the words that will never leave her

The time is okay to leave

But she won’t

The clock drags her away  

Direction

Sometimes when the rain don’t seem to drop

Call on me; I’ll be there

And if the drops fall down too hard: I’ll be there

And if the trees just won’t grow I’ll plant that seed

Call on me: I’ll be there

And when there is no place to go and no place you want to be

Babe you can call on me

When you feel like you don’t know where you are

Just ask, I can answer that

But babe sometimes somewhere is nowhere

And nowhere is somewhere

And sometimes the people you love might walk out and leave you all alone

Don’t take that road babe call on me: I’ll be there

The Slam Poet

This is a poem about affairs.

We are souls of being

Blinded by the loose straps of skin placed eagerly

Voicing in cellulite and rib cages

"We long for the slavery of eyeballs to follow the disoriented truth as each piece of flesh adds to the stench"

Yet

We are souls of being

Not rails, cold and iced over with competition, tipped over with a synthetic face and swallowing 

Do we forget, do we forget that we have an unseen character, one whose invisible conviction states: "you keep me locked up like the secret that is extinguishing desire between two people, married without thought, ring without the finger, sex without a moan, sex without touch only to convince that the sweat we feel must explain that our bodies our working.  Our souls know better than this.  

Only to purge the past and binge on the turning of a look of strangled disappointment  

Wanting secretly to open our eyes in the dark to feel the breath of tangled enjoyment

When superficial questions were interesting yet now they are atomic, yet another breadcrumb brushed to the floor only to await the moist tunnel and machinery of digestion.

Where it halts the process.  Your teeth no longer work broken from all the meaningless chatter

You are fooling yourselves and I can see it.  Your saliva exchange stopped working only to protest, rekindling is dry and therefore begins the process of death.

Your esophagus has been diced and thrown into the fire where only a spark or two leaves its burn on something so dead.  You are ash and the match in between the two of you is spilling poison.  It is pooling out over the rug you once picked out together, would you be together if you knew we wish the future for you as you do for us? Would you two still stay together if you knew it do those who hear what ceases to exist feel an ache?

Fuck, I wish I could help you both.  But I am just as venomous.