There's not much left of me.

I own 1 laundry basket full of clothes
2 guitars
a broken motorcycle
and a .38 special.

I think I've lost all the friends who read my blog too, to death or dispersion.

Thanks for indulging me.

Peace.

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Photo of an Old Friend

I have just one photograph of you and me together

We are sitting in a flower garden

You look nervous; I'm not smiling

I sat down to write a song about you and the times we had

I've never known someone to make me so happy and oh so sad

All those years ago

Friday nights, we're at the show with all our friends who seem to know

All I need is right beside me in the darkness as the credits roll

Sundays you were in my arms, dancing as our hearts were pounding

I wished that song would never end and I wish I'd never let you go

All those years ago

I have just one photograph of you and me together

We are sitting in Alcazar Garden

You look nervous; I'm not smiling

Late Night

Late Night
Up late
Look up
I look for all the old familiar things we used to see

Late Night
Too late
You too
If you would stretch those cold peculiar wings they'd set you free

Moons to tides and trees to breathing
Yeast to bread or soap to cleaning
Words to speak and eyes to smiling
Gravity to falling falling down..down...down

Late Night
So late
If so
What if all the lines on all the faces smile at me

Late Night
Not late
We're not
guess we're only trying to fill the spaces now its three

Rain to flowers, light to seeing
sleep to dreams or sweets to eating
Lips to kiss and pounds for losing
Gravity to falling falling down..down..down

Late night
Real late
For real
Dark for light this time, the sun can't sleep another moment.

Soft Distance

Yes but no
Now but never
Come here but not too close
Thank you and good night

Its complicated but not
Its a compliment with a but......attatched
Its an attatchment that wont open
Its open but not on Sundays

As long as I'm needed
As long as I'm useful
As long as I'm paying
Longer than intended
As worn out as a long playing record

Burning like a nightclub
Burning like a rash
Burning like an old grove forest
of St. Jude candles

A single flower in a field that stretches from back here to up there. Thousands, but only one will do. With the wind changing and the sun setting, heads dancing and petals crashing, it is easy to loose a rose in the soft distance.

Tonight

Tonight my lips are burning

The sweet curry flame on my toungue
twisting its way through the depths
of a long remembered kiss

Tonight my heart is racing

The cool heavy air fills my lungs
leaving no room for regrets
in a lingering embrace

Tonight my soul is changing

No "puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche"
The very thought of you fills me with joy
and there is room for nothing else

The Christmas Shade

The sister of night breathes softly near the banister
waiting for the hour to descend silently, a shade
in the window filtered moonlight dancing accross my wall
down, down, to the christmas floor. The hard floor.

Beneath the tree, and beneath the presents
beneath the settled dust of bachelors
finding the worn wood of the floorboards
groaning with the weight and grinding of life.

Searching for the silent spot between the boards
holding her breath in the one last place, hoping and still,
dragging the dry air around her, pressing to her breast
the hours before dawn, an almost forgotten dream.

The moon sinks below the western night
Her dancers slowly dissapperaing
into the dark
before morning.

Sometime

It won't stop
Like the fizz in a soda can
or the fly zapping spit
from a high tension wire

It won't stop
Like a bass knob broken
on the tube warmed voice
of a bygone broadcast

It won't stop
Like the oversized shoes
on a laugh abused lover
in the center ring lights

It won't stop
Like the bell lashed ankles
of middle-aged morris men
complaing of their capers

It won't stop
Like the prayerful parents
of midwestern well fallen children
waiting for firemen to speak

It won't stop
like the sweet warmth
of a waning winter's moon
fading now in my memory