The filing room
is where we met
and suckled each other...
until your father found out -
and your brother.
is where we met
and suckled each other...
until your father found out -
and your brother.
One thing done well
beats a thousand
mediocre. Kiss her,
soak her, hold her, poke her -
Just don't choke her.
Your breath's so bad
we both need gum.
Who would have thought that when
you danced up and smiled,
You'd be the one.
Live as you wish,
you petri dish
of fools and gangsters. You
steal the Earth, its girth, its
core, its plankton.
Bridge over sea,
you don't know me,
but I am white male.
Black cod. Yellow scrod. Same
eternity.
Bomb in the ground
wouldn't be found
until it wreaked havoc
all around. Now we cry
alone, aloud.
No messages,
Empty inbox,
Cleaned-out soul of a top
drawer. Sometimes you want more
but get nothing.
Leave me alone
in my blanket
of scorn I have worn since
I was born. Nails and spa
provide cover.
I'm in a trap.
It's not your fault,
but you will pay. Wait it
out, you say. But how long?
It's getting late.
I am open
to stars and space
and planets and black holes.
I feel them inside me.
It is real.
Onghh Yanghh sidestep
shuffle. Eat dirt
or a truffle. Pray, or
ignite a kerfuffle.
Just don't ruffle.
……….
In Fall, I love
to crinkle leaves
on my face. In Winter,
there's fire in the kitchen
and the bedroom.
In Spring, my feet
are wet. So are
yours. In Summer, we sweat,
waiting for the crinkling
of the Fall leaves.
……………….
Oil tankers
welcome you home.
Freight trains make you reflect.
Corruption is part of
your Region bones.
Region bones cramp
your style if
you break away. The call
of the Catcracker is
strong and won't die.
Your people die.
It hurts. It's sad.
Region bones melt into the
soil with oil and slag.
More Region Rats.
Region Classic
mic check, mic check
WJOB.
Lost in the past, reaching
for the future.
You and me on
one side. You and
me, the other. Musket free,
nuclear spree, dead are
sister, brother.
You're shortchanged at
the Five and Dime,
cigarette machine stole
your dollar. Don't fret, don't
whine, just holler.
Technology
to surveil
is only surpassed by
her ability to
wail. Run, don't hide.
Driving south on
I-65
to Indy and beyond
always starts out muddy.
Gray Hoosier land.
I had to talk
to her before
she left. Two sobbing heads
on a pillow. One died
and one didn't.
When the shit comes
down and no one's
around, I'll remember
what you just said - Life sucks,
then you die, clown.
Covered in grime,
grease spots and slime,
he returns from the mill
unscathed. She'll hug him tight -
After he's bathed.
The lovely one
floats easily
across Indiana
corn fields that are pretty
just once a year.
Sprinkle sprankle
Michael Jackson
whim. Tinky winky child
molester sin. Gary,
Indiana.
Incautious goon,
You're a bull in
a China shop owned by
Iranians from the
South Side. Stop it.
Antiseptic
high-rise bloodshot.
Plenty of floss, flowers,
elevators rides at
sunrise, sunset.
I sleep best to
the hum of the
Borman Expressway while
burping White Castles and
scratching my balls.
Everyone likes
Indiana,
or the idea of
it, 'cause when you look close,
there's some shit.
All these people
passing by and
through me. Sometimes Hammond's
bright, sometimes gloomy. Hint -
It's radio.
Lights of fame and
purpose lame, they
warm your fingers whole. But
for your soul, they do naught
but fake you out.
He had one wish -
to turn back time.
So he cleaned his room with
Lemon Pledge and flushed the
toilet. Hi mom.
If the magic
leaves me, I won't
care, except that the rain
dripping down a soffit
won't mean as much.
In Michigan,
you can forget
just long enough to run
a purple blade of grass
between your teeth.
Oil tanks in
fields of brown grass.
Gravel greets the sparrows,
who do not know of the
fire inside.
Sleeping homeless
people under
the Harrison Street bridge.
How did you wind up here?
Wait, don't tell me.
Sunshine beats down
on my soul more
today than yesterday.
That's cuz winter's finally
fucking over.
We all have the
anger in me.
It comes out with whiskey,
or finding your dead mom's
doily. You'll see.
Breath breath, beat beat
Think think, blink blink.
We go on and on 'til
the machine runs out and
there's quiet.
In a plane on
my way to the
NCAA. This is
America. There are
even peanuts.
If you are a
poet, show it.
If you're a cook, cook it.
But if you're a shooter,
Stop. Please don't shoot.
Pictures of knots
in hotel rooms
are creepy. They look like
snakes ready to pounce while
you're sleeping.
Which way, Jesus,
should I stay or
go? Or are you just like
the rest of us - How the
hell should I know?
Your possessions
coat you with a
film that you couldn't shake
even if you wanted.
Go ahead. Try.
In the Region
on a sunny
day. Wish it could stay this
way. Stopped for a train ain't
even a pain.
Triangle square
circle auto-
mobile. It's hard to
say what's fake or real,
So you steal.
Half of a hot
pizza's better
than no pizza at all.
Sometimes you rise, sometimes
you fall, y'all.
Mutherfucking
this and, of course,
mutherfucking that. It's
a way of life in the
Region. That's that.
Women forced to
be naked. Men forced
to kill. The purpose of
this lies beyond the pail.
And always will.
He got on one
knee. The rest is
history. It could have
been Venice. But instead
it’s Tuscany.
We killed what we
had. Looking back,
it wasn’t so bad. Now that
it’s gone, we’re all forlorn.
And sad. And mad.
Waning moments
of a long life
could be right now. Or in
a hospital room with
a morphine drip.
Region Rats
and scatterbrains
hope for a long life with
a good wife... and a chest
full of rifles.
The roar of a
completely full
arena on a cold
night is beautiful, raw
and genuine.
Don't make me go
to bed without
a hum. The roar of the
cosmos is not enough.
I need some noise.
Sometimes I lay
down in the love.
Not the best bargaining
position, but the final
buzzer is near.
The touch and smell
of St. Thomas
More will stay with me for
the rest of my life. What
a bloody bore.
Give yourself time
to recall that
you misspelled "yellow" in
the finals of your third
grade spelling bee.
House on a lake
won't leave me be.
It's a dream I thought of
during a Dead solo
a while ago.
Coffee, toast and
a radio.
It's all you need on a
Monday morning in June.
Sun comes up soon.
Waiting without
patience for the
Dead to finish tuning
their guitars and finally
play some music.
I am working
for what and why?
Money and prestige lost
their meaning a long time
ago. Don't try.
I've wasted so
much time working
hard that it's getting late
and the light's about to
go out for good.
beats a thousand
mediocre. Kiss her,
soak her, hold her, poke her -
Just don't choke her.
Your breath's so bad
we both need gum.
Who would have thought that when
you danced up and smiled,
You'd be the one.
Live as you wish,
you petri dish
of fools and gangsters. You
steal the Earth, its girth, its
core, its plankton.
Bridge over sea,
you don't know me,
but I am white male.
Black cod. Yellow scrod. Same
eternity.
Bomb in the ground
wouldn't be found
until it wreaked havoc
all around. Now we cry
alone, aloud.
No messages,
Empty inbox,
Cleaned-out soul of a top
drawer. Sometimes you want more
but get nothing.
Leave me alone
in my blanket
of scorn I have worn since
I was born. Nails and spa
provide cover.
I'm in a trap.
It's not your fault,
but you will pay. Wait it
out, you say. But how long?
It's getting late.
I am open
to stars and space
and planets and black holes.
I feel them inside me.
It is real.
Onghh Yanghh sidestep
shuffle. Eat dirt
or a truffle. Pray, or
ignite a kerfuffle.
Just don't ruffle.
……….
In Fall, I love
to crinkle leaves
on my face. In Winter,
there's fire in the kitchen
and the bedroom.
In Spring, my feet
are wet. So are
yours. In Summer, we sweat,
waiting for the crinkling
of the Fall leaves.
……………….
Oil tankers
welcome you home.
Freight trains make you reflect.
Corruption is part of
your Region bones.
Region bones cramp
your style if
you break away. The call
of the Catcracker is
strong and won't die.
Your people die.
It hurts. It's sad.
Region bones melt into the
soil with oil and slag.
More Region Rats.
Region Classic
mic check, mic check
WJOB.
Lost in the past, reaching
for the future.
You and me on
one side. You and
me, the other. Musket free,
nuclear spree, dead are
sister, brother.
You're shortchanged at
the Five and Dime,
cigarette machine stole
your dollar. Don't fret, don't
whine, just holler.
Technology
to surveil
is only surpassed by
her ability to
wail. Run, don't hide.
Driving south on
I-65
to Indy and beyond
always starts out muddy.
Gray Hoosier land.
I had to talk
to her before
she left. Two sobbing heads
on a pillow. One died
and one didn't.
When the shit comes
down and no one's
around, I'll remember
what you just said - Life sucks,
then you die, clown.
Covered in grime,
grease spots and slime,
he returns from the mill
unscathed. She'll hug him tight -
After he's bathed.
The lovely one
floats easily
across Indiana
corn fields that are pretty
just once a year.
Sprinkle sprankle
Michael Jackson
whim. Tinky winky child
molester sin. Gary,
Indiana.
Incautious goon,
You're a bull in
a China shop owned by
Iranians from the
South Side. Stop it.
Antiseptic
high-rise bloodshot.
Plenty of floss, flowers,
elevators rides at
sunrise, sunset.
I sleep best to
the hum of the
Borman Expressway while
burping White Castles and
scratching my balls.
Everyone likes
Indiana,
or the idea of
it, 'cause when you look close,
there's some shit.
All these people
passing by and
through me. Sometimes Hammond's
bright, sometimes gloomy. Hint -
It's radio.
Lights of fame and
purpose lame, they
warm your fingers whole. But
for your soul, they do naught
but fake you out.
He had one wish -
to turn back time.
So he cleaned his room with
Lemon Pledge and flushed the
toilet. Hi mom.
If the magic
leaves me, I won't
care, except that the rain
dripping down a soffit
won't mean as much.
In Michigan,
you can forget
just long enough to run
a purple blade of grass
between your teeth.
Oil tanks in
fields of brown grass.
Gravel greets the sparrows,
who do not know of the
fire inside.
Sleeping homeless
people under
the Harrison Street bridge.
How did you wind up here?
Wait, don't tell me.
Sunshine beats down
on my soul more
today than yesterday.
That's cuz winter's finally
fucking over.
We all have the
anger in me.
It comes out with whiskey,
or finding your dead mom's
doily. You'll see.
Breath breath, beat beat
Think think, blink blink.
We go on and on 'til
the machine runs out and
there's quiet.
In a plane on
my way to the
NCAA. This is
America. There are
even peanuts.
If you are a
poet, show it.
If you're a cook, cook it.
But if you're a shooter,
Stop. Please don't shoot.
Pictures of knots
in hotel rooms
are creepy. They look like
snakes ready to pounce while
you're sleeping.
Which way, Jesus,
should I stay or
go? Or are you just like
the rest of us - How the
hell should I know?
Your possessions
coat you with a
film that you couldn't shake
even if you wanted.
Go ahead. Try.
In the Region
on a sunny
day. Wish it could stay this
way. Stopped for a train ain't
even a pain.
Triangle square
circle auto-
mobile. It's hard to
say what's fake or real,
So you steal.
Half of a hot
pizza's better
than no pizza at all.
Sometimes you rise, sometimes
you fall, y'all.
Mutherfucking
this and, of course,
mutherfucking that. It's
a way of life in the
Region. That's that.
Women forced to
be naked. Men forced
to kill. The purpose of
this lies beyond the pail.
And always will.
He got on one
knee. The rest is
history. It could have
been Venice. But instead
it’s Tuscany.
We killed what we
had. Looking back,
it wasn’t so bad. Now that
it’s gone, we’re all forlorn.
And sad. And mad.
Waning moments
of a long life
could be right now. Or in
a hospital room with
a morphine drip.
Region Rats
and scatterbrains
hope for a long life with
a good wife... and a chest
full of rifles.
The roar of a
completely full
arena on a cold
night is beautiful, raw
and genuine.
Don't make me go
to bed without
a hum. The roar of the
cosmos is not enough.
I need some noise.
Sometimes I lay
down in the love.
Not the best bargaining
position, but the final
buzzer is near.
The touch and smell
of St. Thomas
More will stay with me for
the rest of my life. What
a bloody bore.
Give yourself time
to recall that
you misspelled "yellow" in
the finals of your third
grade spelling bee.
House on a lake
won't leave me be.
It's a dream I thought of
during a Dead solo
a while ago.
Coffee, toast and
a radio.
It's all you need on a
Monday morning in June.
Sun comes up soon.
Waiting without
patience for the
Dead to finish tuning
their guitars and finally
play some music.
I am working
for what and why?
Money and prestige lost
their meaning a long time
ago. Don't try.
I've wasted so
much time working
hard that it's getting late
and the light's about to
go out for good.
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