29.1, round three, for the win.
I love this and I killed with it. That's it.
I. love. graffiti. whether it's on walls or towers,
trucks buildings bus stops it's got this power
of someone who can't take it who makes their mark
in deviant art with primal and pain and heart
certain slices of society split hairs and call fair foul
since it's not theirs and they don't know enough to care
but I see it – history is a weapon so read it, arm yourself
push your mind past the definitions divined by wealth
when somehow a woman or man with spray can
is given the handle vandal, but the banner spangled
protects ads and jangles of
“you're ugly, you're fat – that is why you should buy, buy, buy”and there's no scandal
how sad we call it free speech
look underneath what happens when someone starts clapping or tapping chisel into stone or slapping paint onto canvas – the act of creation spans this and pulls us together
so I put words down and aim them at forever
as a kid, you see I found this light inside of me, and decided to scratch at it assiduously
I found it out it was the bright shine of creativity shimmering in harmonious symmetry that I see when I pursue the activities I pursue in eccentricity, scribbling the songs thoughts sing to me so I can link to the connectivity running indivisibly like white-hot electricity through all of you, and me
this light shone bright through my chest, in cold defiance of the unknown of death – like a bellyful of beautiful
this light was all mine to have, and I could shine and plant diamonds deep in the grit and the grime that compose what we suppose is reality
I don't know what the meaning of life is, or what happens in the chapter after
but all you can do is choose what to do with the time given you, and I feel a duty to spread the beautiful, to grace to this life with time spent thinking of ways to say thank you
- so let's let our lights out to plant diamonds and pearls in the world
physics insists that we are twisted quantum strings forming things that think they're things, bringing us things to think life has no meaning – so?
all you can do is decide what to do with the time that is given to you – so no matter what else is true about you, don't you want to be glad you knew you?
don't you still want to make it more beautiful?
I say, whatever comes next, why bother caring about red herrings and our fathers to stay blessed
because surely you can agree with the idea that beauty si quite simply good, and even when misunderstood is an aim to be pursed at all times as the quest for sublime
that light that shines inside you and I is beautiful
we've got a duty to spread it, like love
if I apply for a job
and it matters not who I am or am not
but only who I am friends with
then that boss is probably an asshole
on a day that may come when one judges the living and the dead, if it matters not what I did but that I picked the right judge then I don't want to be right
I know what to do with the time given to...me
say thank you to life for this breath
let my light shine from the hole in my chest
love is what we need and beauty brings us together
so I put words down – and I aim them at forever
creativity's electricity manifests in me lyrically – I love graffiti because it means someone else gave their beauty wings
Saturday, April 30, 2011
disney revolutions
started writing it at home last week, using necrophilia and a night at a hookah bar. did it round 2 last night, and got a 26.1 with a 1 point time penalty.
I get to thinking on things when I'm cruising on my bike
potentially thinking exponentially cuz I am riding like a kite
do you ever wonder why the movies
we show our kids fresh off their Similac
have so many men who just so happen
to be calmly yet passionately necrophiliac?
You'll never guess what happened today, dear diary
I'm out kissing dead girls, one sits up and smiles at me!
She's all “hey there handsome, my name's Snow White
- and I say we get married, it just feels so right
me? my luck is tight, and so is my man Charming's
last we week he went and tied the ball and chain
with that smoking undead Sleeping beauty dame
of course, my corpse-humping self said yes
it's a shame White has breath in her breasts
but I just jumped from perverted peasant to kinky king
forget the royal ring, those chilly catacombs
got so many places for my ding-a-ling!
What? Disney, come on, think about what you're portraying
there are so many things you could but you're just not saying
I'm cruising kite on my bike and maybe I'm thinking exponentially
but I'm thinking about things that are strange or changed, like
stockades - I did not know why they were a big deal
in Beauty and the Beast, Belle's father gets wheeled in
locked head and hand in the stocks right in the town square
people all around throw lettuce and tomatoes I'm thinking that's not fair
this is me in 2nd grade, so fat 4th graders hit me with my own tits
fruit and vegetables do not seem that bad by comparison
until I read about the real problem – people are rotten
if you do not have friends to watch your bottom all night
then you might end up the town bicycle
the image of Belle's father, moustache whiskers quivering
while Gaston and his merry men all ride him like a river
I can see why Disney shied away from historical accuracy
but if we're gonna get outside the box factually
then let's rock some serious revisions
get a little more optimistic with our Jiminy Cricket dreams
you notice a few things not right when you're riding your bike
whether or not your thinking is shot cause you're cruising kite
when you get low enough to see what the sidewalk cracks show
you can look inside and find the saddest crimes of our times
where the people that mind don't matter, those that matter don't mind
and everyone watching Disney sees fit to ignore it just fine
I'm ready for Pocahontas, part three – the end of the trilogy
where dreams might finally come true, where me and you are sick
of seeing the sap at the bus stop with shoulders slumped since
the shadow of the shelter is not high enough for him to stand tall
not when the sun beats 110 degrees, please, that's a well-paid week
not when this is the probable peak of his broken-hearted journey
we know exactly where it started, where it starts, and starts, and starts
I find it less obscene that Smith was thirty and Pocahontas thirteen
than I do the glossy sheen we drew over their honeymoon
where the Navi swung like elegant, blue, strange fruit
Jake Sully may have killed the colonel but a country of colonists
kicked ass, erased names and left remains rotting in piles
while the credits roll up and we roll out to skip on the bill
of the scalps we swung from Florida to Oklahoma and all points west
their tears run a river to waterfall on deaf ears, because the best
freedom we bequeath them is the choice of huffing or meth
we have a special place reserved, just for them, and when
they try to leave we know just where to lay out the
welcome to the table, dinner is at the seventh street soup kitchen
with cheerfully blunt concrete walls which callously call out
“Bienvenidos a Phoenix!” if you slow down to read them
history is not in books not when we took it and cooked it up all shitty
so colonists with cars could skip nimbly over the static in a city
riding a bike at night shows you the grit in the cracks we swept them into
if we're going to use history to come up with Disney movies
let's make a tape where dreams really do come true
I get to thinking on things when I'm cruising on my bike
potentially thinking exponentially cuz I am riding like a kite
do you ever wonder why the movies
we show our kids fresh off their Similac
have so many men who just so happen
to be calmly yet passionately necrophiliac?
You'll never guess what happened today, dear diary
I'm out kissing dead girls, one sits up and smiles at me!
She's all “hey there handsome, my name's Snow White
- and I say we get married, it just feels so right
me? my luck is tight, and so is my man Charming's
last we week he went and tied the ball and chain
with that smoking undead Sleeping beauty dame
of course, my corpse-humping self said yes
it's a shame White has breath in her breasts
but I just jumped from perverted peasant to kinky king
forget the royal ring, those chilly catacombs
got so many places for my ding-a-ling!
What? Disney, come on, think about what you're portraying
there are so many things you could but you're just not saying
I'm cruising kite on my bike and maybe I'm thinking exponentially
but I'm thinking about things that are strange or changed, like
stockades - I did not know why they were a big deal
in Beauty and the Beast, Belle's father gets wheeled in
locked head and hand in the stocks right in the town square
people all around throw lettuce and tomatoes I'm thinking that's not fair
this is me in 2nd grade, so fat 4th graders hit me with my own tits
fruit and vegetables do not seem that bad by comparison
until I read about the real problem – people are rotten
if you do not have friends to watch your bottom all night
then you might end up the town bicycle
the image of Belle's father, moustache whiskers quivering
while Gaston and his merry men all ride him like a river
I can see why Disney shied away from historical accuracy
but if we're gonna get outside the box factually
then let's rock some serious revisions
get a little more optimistic with our Jiminy Cricket dreams
you notice a few things not right when you're riding your bike
whether or not your thinking is shot cause you're cruising kite
when you get low enough to see what the sidewalk cracks show
you can look inside and find the saddest crimes of our times
where the people that mind don't matter, those that matter don't mind
and everyone watching Disney sees fit to ignore it just fine
I'm ready for Pocahontas, part three – the end of the trilogy
where dreams might finally come true, where me and you are sick
of seeing the sap at the bus stop with shoulders slumped since
the shadow of the shelter is not high enough for him to stand tall
not when the sun beats 110 degrees, please, that's a well-paid week
not when this is the probable peak of his broken-hearted journey
we know exactly where it started, where it starts, and starts, and starts
I find it less obscene that Smith was thirty and Pocahontas thirteen
than I do the glossy sheen we drew over their honeymoon
where the Navi swung like elegant, blue, strange fruit
Jake Sully may have killed the colonel but a country of colonists
kicked ass, erased names and left remains rotting in piles
while the credits roll up and we roll out to skip on the bill
of the scalps we swung from Florida to Oklahoma and all points west
their tears run a river to waterfall on deaf ears, because the best
freedom we bequeath them is the choice of huffing or meth
we have a special place reserved, just for them, and when
they try to leave we know just where to lay out the
welcome to the table, dinner is at the seventh street soup kitchen
with cheerfully blunt concrete walls which callously call out
“Bienvenidos a Phoenix!” if you slow down to read them
history is not in books not when we took it and cooked it up all shitty
so colonists with cars could skip nimbly over the static in a city
riding a bike at night shows you the grit in the cracks we swept them into
if we're going to use history to come up with Disney movies
let's make a tape where dreams really do come true
Friday, April 8, 2011
Independence
This is a poem from one of my students from last year, who just popped by to show me.
Humans aren't meant to die
Science can't understand our complex designs
They say we come from monkeys
Now who is believing in fairy tales
We are made of dust
That's why when we burn we turn to ashes
Our treacherous hearts weren't made to stop beating
Our lungs shouldn't take their last breath
The thought of living forever claims our mind
And our souls knows the truth
Humans aren't meant to die
Science can't understand our complex designs
They say we come from monkeys
Now who is believing in fairy tales
We are made of dust
That's why when we burn we turn to ashes
Our treacherous hearts weren't made to stop beating
Our lungs shouldn't take their last breath
The thought of living forever claims our mind
And our souls knows the truth
Monday, March 28, 2011
taxes
Here's another poem I started months ago. I'd been sewing pieces and rhythms together for forever; I finished a functional draft during Friday professional development. The presenter actually called me out - "...and [blank]'s just working on his taxes poem!"
This is my final, non-slam version, I think - which is silly, because I think forcing myself to cut these pieces to three minutes has only made them better by far.
This thing clocks in at 3:20, 3:30, I think - I opened with it at the March qualifier, and they didn't say anything about time constraints - but I haven't decided where to get line chopping. Input appreciated on things that may fall dead.
taxes
taxes are the price we pay for organized society
for our police and firefighters
for our schools and soldiers
for our prisons and fences
let me spell it out for you
there is no u or s in we
when we must cinch our belts
U.S. us is a foreign idea
one suited for fascists and Swedes
when we must cough up taxes
when we must pay for organized society
we has a silent e
it's not we, but wee, the little people
the U.S. of us cannot possibly handle
the back breaking burden
of Boomers blossoming beyond retirement
see, these higher numbers of tired elderly
made dire this situation, social security's on the fire
it's gotta go
we can not cover unemployment
we can not get you health insurance
we need to pay up for the bullets and bombs
to bailout the banks and grant the Party ranks
tax deductions for training us at burger flipping
paper pushing to pretend like we got some meaning
I think you and I are worth way more
than cigarettes and sad-ass sixpacks to cope with
sick days with no pay and shit jobs with low wages
all this shit makes sense if you just buy the logic, but
I'm too broke to afford these trickle-down economics
if whatever goes up must come down
I wouldn't still be sitting here on the ground
with my tongue out and a bad case of cotton mouth
there's no us here, not in this U.S., not today
not when we pay our taxes
it's just little ol' wee paying for organized society
no taxation without representation, huh?
ain't no tattooed broke ass smokers on Capitol Hill
nobody with bike locks and bus passes in they pockets
nobody there looks like me or you
you wonder why we want better minimum wage
but we're still waitin'
we're looking for healthcare and pensions
but we're still waitin;
we're looking for a break
and wee with this little silent e
we're still waitin
while watchin banks blow our life savings
and get billion dollar bailouts
but I should stop hating
because I'm not gonna do shit
and neither are you
we used to die for what we believed in
we used to die
for the right to speak our minds
for the chance to decide for ourselves
for the simple respect represented
by no taxation without representation
now we're only willing to die for our dreams
if the respawn time is under ten seconds
we hate these taxes and plenty other economic facts
but we're not going to die to fight these things
we're sycophants for the new world kings
what percent of mankind
in the last five hundred years
has had the utter privilege
of complaining about the water pressure?
Servants with copper water buckets
heated over roaring fires
could get ancient emperors a steam bath
I spend ten minutes scratching my ass in the shower
and 600 gallons get pissed down the drain
I drank orange juice this morning
most the world still lives and dies
on less than a dollar a day
I spent a buck thirty nine at Circle K
to get fresh squeezed OJ
from groves thousands of miles away
it was delicious.
It used to take an army and a fleet of ships
to provide the luxury of fresh fruit year-round
it still does
we just don't get to command em personally
we are merely expected to pay the fucking bills
the maintenance costs on sniper scope rifles
filling the gas tank on supersonic aircraft
room and board for the people
who will not get with the program
they keep interrupting our nice neat organized society
it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees
no one ever said that
who had a full refrigerator
I like Lennon, but we are not all going to be happy
most of us are going to be hungry
not us, or we, or wee
we're lucky enough to think all you need is love
and to hate paying our taxes
the price of organized society
happy fucking tax day
This is my final, non-slam version, I think - which is silly, because I think forcing myself to cut these pieces to three minutes has only made them better by far.
This thing clocks in at 3:20, 3:30, I think - I opened with it at the March qualifier, and they didn't say anything about time constraints - but I haven't decided where to get line chopping. Input appreciated on things that may fall dead.
taxes
taxes are the price we pay for organized society
for our police and firefighters
for our schools and soldiers
for our prisons and fences
let me spell it out for you
there is no u or s in we
when we must cinch our belts
U.S. us is a foreign idea
one suited for fascists and Swedes
when we must cough up taxes
when we must pay for organized society
we has a silent e
it's not we, but wee, the little people
the U.S. of us cannot possibly handle
the back breaking burden
of Boomers blossoming beyond retirement
see, these higher numbers of tired elderly
made dire this situation, social security's on the fire
it's gotta go
we can not cover unemployment
we can not get you health insurance
we need to pay up for the bullets and bombs
to bailout the banks and grant the Party ranks
tax deductions for training us at burger flipping
paper pushing to pretend like we got some meaning
I think you and I are worth way more
than cigarettes and sad-ass sixpacks to cope with
sick days with no pay and shit jobs with low wages
all this shit makes sense if you just buy the logic, but
I'm too broke to afford these trickle-down economics
if whatever goes up must come down
I wouldn't still be sitting here on the ground
with my tongue out and a bad case of cotton mouth
there's no us here, not in this U.S., not today
not when we pay our taxes
it's just little ol' wee paying for organized society
no taxation without representation, huh?
ain't no tattooed broke ass smokers on Capitol Hill
nobody with bike locks and bus passes in they pockets
nobody there looks like me or you
you wonder why we want better minimum wage
but we're still waitin'
we're looking for healthcare and pensions
but we're still waitin;
we're looking for a break
and wee with this little silent e
we're still waitin
while watchin banks blow our life savings
and get billion dollar bailouts
but I should stop hating
because I'm not gonna do shit
and neither are you
we used to die for what we believed in
we used to die
for the right to speak our minds
for the chance to decide for ourselves
for the simple respect represented
by no taxation without representation
now we're only willing to die for our dreams
if the respawn time is under ten seconds
we hate these taxes and plenty other economic facts
but we're not going to die to fight these things
we're sycophants for the new world kings
what percent of mankind
in the last five hundred years
has had the utter privilege
of complaining about the water pressure?
Servants with copper water buckets
heated over roaring fires
could get ancient emperors a steam bath
I spend ten minutes scratching my ass in the shower
and 600 gallons get pissed down the drain
I drank orange juice this morning
most the world still lives and dies
on less than a dollar a day
I spent a buck thirty nine at Circle K
to get fresh squeezed OJ
from groves thousands of miles away
it was delicious.
It used to take an army and a fleet of ships
to provide the luxury of fresh fruit year-round
it still does
we just don't get to command em personally
we are merely expected to pay the fucking bills
the maintenance costs on sniper scope rifles
filling the gas tank on supersonic aircraft
room and board for the people
who will not get with the program
they keep interrupting our nice neat organized society
it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees
no one ever said that
who had a full refrigerator
I like Lennon, but we are not all going to be happy
most of us are going to be hungry
not us, or we, or wee
we're lucky enough to think all you need is love
and to hate paying our taxes
the price of organized society
happy fucking tax day
contaminated
This is not finalized; it's longer than three minutes. But after a couple months, it's got a finished draft. I slammed it at the March qualifier - low score: 9.9.
I could fuck your brains out – if I don't blow mine out first
the saddest thing about it I don't know which is worse
I've made enough mistakes that I'm finally gotten clarity
and I want to be clear, you, you should be scared of me
I used to be a fat kid, low self-esteem, and it shows
now I put in work so I know you'll like what I got in these clothes
and I swear, I'm burnin' inside, so I ride red lined, ready to explode
if you're ready to go, I will touch the bottom and curl your toes,
and show you things you did not know you didn't know
see, if I'm focused and stroking, I don't feel broken
I feel whole if I can leave your body lying smokin
we can can get dirty, nasty, raw, just spanking and choking
or we can keep it clean and sweet but its still just mean
because I am in some way shape or form contaminated
I have alienated every single girl I have ever dated
I can call em up but they just never seem to be home
it's always “please leave a message after the tone”
-look, I'm not calling stalking I don't care who you're screwing
I just, want to talk – I want to see how you're doing
I don't understand caring about each other so much
and somehow now we don't even keep in touch
but I get it, I know why you're gone, and don't talk back
I'm filled with filth, I spread poison, and that is a fact
so I could fuck your brains out, or just kill myself
both of these choices seem as good as anything else
I've got this evil toxic pollutin confusion, similar to when
usin slides inside and turns into abusin, because by then
you're drowning in poison that's drip drop pooling in my mind
I can't swim and there's nicotine chimes keeping tar and oil time
to the crackling of all the black oil fires and funeral pyres
my gray matter is stinking toxic nauseous burning tires
so inside I am obscene, all festering sores and gangrene
marijuana masochism and meditation are just smokescreens
to hide the dark I carry locked up inside, and I spread it
I think it's under control, but I let it out and infected
everyone I care about, like my presence is an injection
of misery and madness that sends everyone running, I get it
my temples are pounding with the sound of all the people
I care about thinking it's better when I'm not around
I didn't mean to burn bridges with my old flames, it's proof
of the truth – that I'm a dirty martini with no vermouth
missing something basic – it's obvious when I face it
I don't trust, I'm not happy, and I can't fake it
so I'm a human fucking infection, and I can't take it
sure, I could fuck your brains out, but I should blow mine out first
and I'm so sick of myself that I don't even know which is worse
I stand up here pretending that I'm some kind of poet
but I'm just a freak of nature fuck up, and I know it
the poisons in my own brain are driving me insane
they make me into a crazed spider trapped in chains
so again and again, I spread love and spit venom
into anyone who lets me past their protective denim
I'll pull you in with my style, and drive you wild
but you better run like hell from the cracks in my smile
I'm not ready for love, I'm matches to a gasoline kiss
and I gotta go before I explode, because something's gotta give
I can't keep all this bullshit bottled up inside myself
but I don't want to spread this shit to anybody else
and I only feel right when you come so hard you're beside yourself
so let's pick a third path, and try a little something else
I won't kill myself, or fuck your brains out if you let me know
you're loving the fucking you're getting from my mouth
I could fuck your brains out – if I don't blow mine out first
the saddest thing about it I don't know which is worse
I've made enough mistakes that I'm finally gotten clarity
and I want to be clear, you, you should be scared of me
I used to be a fat kid, low self-esteem, and it shows
now I put in work so I know you'll like what I got in these clothes
and I swear, I'm burnin' inside, so I ride red lined, ready to explode
if you're ready to go, I will touch the bottom and curl your toes,
and show you things you did not know you didn't know
see, if I'm focused and stroking, I don't feel broken
I feel whole if I can leave your body lying smokin
we can can get dirty, nasty, raw, just spanking and choking
or we can keep it clean and sweet but its still just mean
because I am in some way shape or form contaminated
I have alienated every single girl I have ever dated
I can call em up but they just never seem to be home
it's always “please leave a message after the tone”
-look, I'm not calling stalking I don't care who you're screwing
I just, want to talk – I want to see how you're doing
I don't understand caring about each other so much
and somehow now we don't even keep in touch
but I get it, I know why you're gone, and don't talk back
I'm filled with filth, I spread poison, and that is a fact
so I could fuck your brains out, or just kill myself
both of these choices seem as good as anything else
I've got this evil toxic pollutin confusion, similar to when
usin slides inside and turns into abusin, because by then
you're drowning in poison that's drip drop pooling in my mind
I can't swim and there's nicotine chimes keeping tar and oil time
to the crackling of all the black oil fires and funeral pyres
my gray matter is stinking toxic nauseous burning tires
so inside I am obscene, all festering sores and gangrene
marijuana masochism and meditation are just smokescreens
to hide the dark I carry locked up inside, and I spread it
I think it's under control, but I let it out and infected
everyone I care about, like my presence is an injection
of misery and madness that sends everyone running, I get it
my temples are pounding with the sound of all the people
I care about thinking it's better when I'm not around
I didn't mean to burn bridges with my old flames, it's proof
of the truth – that I'm a dirty martini with no vermouth
missing something basic – it's obvious when I face it
I don't trust, I'm not happy, and I can't fake it
so I'm a human fucking infection, and I can't take it
sure, I could fuck your brains out, but I should blow mine out first
and I'm so sick of myself that I don't even know which is worse
I stand up here pretending that I'm some kind of poet
but I'm just a freak of nature fuck up, and I know it
the poisons in my own brain are driving me insane
they make me into a crazed spider trapped in chains
so again and again, I spread love and spit venom
into anyone who lets me past their protective denim
I'll pull you in with my style, and drive you wild
but you better run like hell from the cracks in my smile
I'm not ready for love, I'm matches to a gasoline kiss
and I gotta go before I explode, because something's gotta give
I can't keep all this bullshit bottled up inside myself
but I don't want to spread this shit to anybody else
and I only feel right when you come so hard you're beside yourself
so let's pick a third path, and try a little something else
I won't kill myself, or fuck your brains out if you let me know
you're loving the fucking you're getting from my mouth
February Tombstone Qualifier
It's been awhile!
April 29th is the Southwest Shoot-out - top four poets from the shoot-out are in the nationals competition in Boston, in August.
Getting to the shoot-out meant either taking one of the top two spots in a qualifying slam - there were three, January, February, and March - or having a high enough cumulative point total from those slams that you rank in the top 10 (which automatically includes winners from those slams).
I was sick in January. February, I took first. After a bull session with friends at BFG, the best advice came from t-hawk: "Come out strong, show 'em a sensitive side in the middle to show your range, and then shove it down their fucking throats."
Sound advice.
I slammed "Amazing at football," toned it back with "irrational numbers," and finished with tears, screaming, losing my hat, and "countdown."
Hehehehe.
April 29th is the Southwest Shoot-out - top four poets from the shoot-out are in the nationals competition in Boston, in August.
Getting to the shoot-out meant either taking one of the top two spots in a qualifying slam - there were three, January, February, and March - or having a high enough cumulative point total from those slams that you rank in the top 10 (which automatically includes winners from those slams).
I was sick in January. February, I took first. After a bull session with friends at BFG, the best advice came from t-hawk: "Come out strong, show 'em a sensitive side in the middle to show your range, and then shove it down their fucking throats."
Sound advice.
I slammed "Amazing at football," toned it back with "irrational numbers," and finished with tears, screaming, losing my hat, and "countdown."
Hehehehe.
Slam - the final countdown
The sub 3-minute version of the final countdown.
a reading from the verses of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
with red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
twice, Visa, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
that security feature
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
red lights flying two at a time
all staring backward and bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
wrapped around a glass
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
I'm confused. I keep paying dues
but the world stays cast in stone gray hues
except for the red eyes, streaming, two by two
six feet tall
green throwback, shoulder holster
scribblin' deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony – I almost met my end in the street
zero difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven AM
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at the party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still streaming straight coffee when I piss
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
I pretend I don't need 'em
just chug 'em and breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
miserable red taillights, drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you're everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
eight legs, spiders on my windshield
there's sanity in their slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles, for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scheherazade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders in my car, all aching
four chambers in my heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
turn to the side, and do it right
everybody will know
just one, all alone
it's my time - I’m sick of driving in the lines
a reading from the verses of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
with red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
twice, Visa, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
that security feature
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
red lights flying two at a time
all staring backward and bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
wrapped around a glass
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
I'm confused. I keep paying dues
but the world stays cast in stone gray hues
except for the red eyes, streaming, two by two
six feet tall
green throwback, shoulder holster
scribblin' deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony – I almost met my end in the street
zero difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven AM
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at the party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still streaming straight coffee when I piss
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
I pretend I don't need 'em
just chug 'em and breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
miserable red taillights, drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you're everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
eight legs, spiders on my windshield
there's sanity in their slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles, for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scheherazade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders in my car, all aching
four chambers in my heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
turn to the side, and do it right
everybody will know
just one, all alone
it's my time - I’m sick of driving in the lines
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