Sell Your House Or Kill Your Neighbors

Are we so brave to find ourselves
Laughing and mocking with skin connecting
Us in places with such terrible weight?

I found out too late that I'd lost
The bet I put down on reason, and a
Kind of virginity would be payment of debt.

Are we so empty to glorify phrases that
Give value to mere words and then
Turn to fight for men without blood?

I went to a doctor to get my life straight
But he said I was crooked for a noble cause
And what was better than being a doll?

Are we so tall that we tower like a
Braindead Goliath that won't look down or
Left or right to heal a man with burning skin?

I shed a tear to welcome in some strange
Men who should resent but don't pretend.
Because who could fear a dying star?

Dead Dimension

There is a dead dimension where I sometimes go
That's inside walls and wooden holes.
My oversize head just won't fit so
It feels like a melon turning in a vice grip.
Everything around you takes a different shape
And no matter how hard you reach it's two feet away.
The constant brightness blinds your eyes like
A non-stop stab of lightning on moonless night,
And the persistent shrieking of a half-dead bird
Will give no comfort in pattern or tone.
There's no telling the difference between drowning or drought
If you can't even tell your toe from your mouth.
But don't try to reach for anything solid,
Because what's in the air will keep you away.

The Hardest Thing For Me

So much white noise can make you feel
Sick or stuck inside a tractor tire that
Won't stop rolling, even when it
Reaches the bottom of the hill.

But nothing is worse because it pulses
And strains and stretches the night
So every small crack is easy to see.
That's why the holy ghost is afraid of the deaf.

It feels so unnatural, like we're plugging in
Valium or shooting up summer so
A machine can bring us down to rest
Inside a place that no one's ever won.

That was my excuse for always wanting
To leave and never stop, chasing a
Claim that was like a golden wristwatch
To a woman wearing long sleeves.

But fortunately for me, you tore apart
The kiln, and together, with burning hands
We pressed down hard on each other, ready
To make new shapes, each and every day.

A Sound From The Cottage Basement

The saw sinks deep and sets the grain

Apart from its brother inside of the womb,

And the only one shrieking in spite of the pain

Is a well-oiled surgeon without any gloves.

Who knows how many brothers inside of the womb,

Stuck between horses, shedding their skin,

Saw the well-oiled surgeon without any gloves,

Sharpening shark teeth and making them numb?

While stuck between horses, shedding their skin,

A dry, dead snow is starting to fall.

They're sharpening shark teeth and making them numb,

Like a doctor gassing his open right palm.

The dry, dead snow is piling up high

While they use the ground to make him feel nice,

And when the doctor's done gassing his open right palm

The saw sinks deep, in spite of the pain.

The No Shoes Blues

We are shattered and broken bottles
Of whiskey and gin lying still
And barely breathing after spitting
Out all we had and killing the grass.

There's no doubt they'll melt down
And stain us but let's pray we
Don't end up trying to look famous.
We all know the virgin was never that tall.

Or maybe we'll be like some carnival ride,
In a fake empty town with cotton-faced kids
Marveling at men who are moving hot sticks,
Admiring a trade that's so easy to forget.

So let's just lay here in pieces and wait until
We can make someone feel and know who we are.

Picture a Fly in a Business Suit

Hard hands hold small things
In their power just for power.
While something keeps their necks stiff
Enough to be held above, to give
Them what they need to survive.

Perhaps we should pity them now,
They show us their child-like tears
And fear in such thundering ways.
The whispering spirits will soon become silent
Now knowing the strength they have gained.

But when man makes a weapon
Straight out of the mountain
He doesn't owe anything back to a fly.

Worn down souls prefer wooden holes
Because they can't see the stains
From their unholy war and they
Need to hear buzzing to brighten their
Eyes and coax them back to the firing lines.

No longer can trail guides pretend to be
Nature or airline pilots proclaim they are
Sky. The middleman may make all
The money but we want the poor
To power our lives.

How To Put Out a Fire

I never knew this is what swallowing
Hot coals felt like. But then, of course,
If you promise to eat it,
You just have to eat it.
And while it may have been easier
To keep the peat burning,
Someone was hurting and it's
Your job to save them.

And as the hot pain seems to
Simmer down into your lungs you
Start to see everyone leaving.
Either that or you're going blind.
But no one needs to feel sorry because
It was you who invited them all to the party.

Seasonal Despair

Curse this hard and scorching light,
Burning bare the red-faced rock;
That I was born to lose this fight,
Curse this hard and scorching light!
Those gentle covered creatures might
Be rooted in some stronger stock,
So curse this hard and scorching light
Burning bare the red-faced rock.

What If He Was Awake?

My head feels like a half-empty helium balloon,
Bloated and floating so slowly to the ground
Just like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

My bed is the centerpiece of the room
And because such silence is terrible sound,
My head feels like a half-empty helium balloon.

No one can enter or leave here too soon,
So one-eyed women just linger around
Just like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

In here there's no difference between midnight or noon
So we all drink whiskey like we're trying to drown,
Now my head feels like a half-empty helium balloon.

A newly single black swan is beginning to swoon,
Wondering down feeling quite well endowed,
Just like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

Now children are stamping and licking their spoons,
While men who were martyrs are not to be found.
And my head feels like a half-empty helium balloon,
Falling like the heartfelt dying of the moon.

A Brief Family History

A man that some call Joe the Rat
Writes letters under acronyms and
Distorts facts just to change his name.

And on fake city streets he paints
Pictures of insects the size of a whale, while
Preaching to choirs that silence themselves.

Poor uncle Leo is mad from the war
Of words that he fought, so now
He's a miner dug deep in the dark.

Old grandpa John, who's long dead and gone,
Was moderately sane, but now from his grave
He moans out in pain for what has gone wrong.

We could follow this predictable horizontal line
And find each end burned to stop us
From fraying or trying to bend,
But let's light it again with our cigarette butts.

Down Near the Private Dock

Rotten dead roots are forced to bear all
Like the time you jumped in too soon
Because no one had seen you shirtless,
Helpless, or so vulnerable before.

And sitting there with weight bending branches
You relive that rush of chlorine up your nose
That connects you to the moment like a
Bungee cord on some broken down thing.

We came to these places to pretend that
God is listening, and common spaces are
Untouched except for our footprints
That somehow created the trail that was there.

And secrecy sheds it's leaves in the fall to
Force us to bear all the weight on our own.