The brown shelled M&M
that vanished from your scopes
in the distracted second between
disc one and disc two
of your season three marathon
will come back to haunt you
on Sunday.
original works of parts
Occupied
I've been thinking I might call you.
My hand has been on the little green phone
button that dials the numbers I entered
around three this afternoon
before I slid that hand underneath my pillow
and watched the sky turn
and listened to the streets
between long blinks.
I still can't decide
if it's raining or
if I'm just too hungry
to get up and make myself lunch.
Is it raining there?
My hand has been on the little green phone
button that dials the numbers I entered
around three this afternoon
before I slid that hand underneath my pillow
and watched the sky turn
and listened to the streets
between long blinks.
I still can't decide
if it's raining or
if I'm just too hungry
to get up and make myself lunch.
Is it raining there?
It's Saturday (fuck yeah)
Jump for weekends
jump for noise
hands up for bitties
hands up for bass
hands up for beer
and the human race
two shots for me
three shots for you
four shots for fist fights
and stepped on shoes
a lighter for rock
sunglasses for jazz
peace on Earth
and a piece for the grass
shine for the jewels
and a smile for tits
show whites for a wink
but rolls will get spits
a lager for your thought
car bombs for a blitz
bitch drinks for a buzz
fifty one for eighty six
hands up for friends
hands up for nights
hands up for lasers
lets all take flight
jump for weekends
jump for noise
jump for no reason
jump for the boys
first round's on me
second one's on them
blow's off limits but
the rules can bend
I'll buy the vodka
if you buy the cab
and if we walk
we'll double our bag
fish and troll
with a side of darts
when our feet get tired
lets air out in the park
grab a glass
grab a cup
I'll meet you anywhere
but please lets just
make sure the week stays home
so we can
get fucked up.
I love you.
What?
Yeah.
Awesome.
jump for noise
hands up for bitties
hands up for bass
hands up for beer
and the human race
two shots for me
three shots for you
four shots for fist fights
and stepped on shoes
a lighter for rock
sunglasses for jazz
peace on Earth
and a piece for the grass
shine for the jewels
and a smile for tits
show whites for a wink
but rolls will get spits
a lager for your thought
car bombs for a blitz
bitch drinks for a buzz
fifty one for eighty six
hands up for friends
hands up for nights
hands up for lasers
lets all take flight
jump for weekends
jump for noise
jump for no reason
jump for the boys
first round's on me
second one's on them
blow's off limits but
the rules can bend
I'll buy the vodka
if you buy the cab
and if we walk
we'll double our bag
fish and troll
with a side of darts
when our feet get tired
lets air out in the park
grab a glass
grab a cup
I'll meet you anywhere
but please lets just
make sure the week stays home
so we can
get fucked up.
I love you.
What?
Yeah.
Awesome.
Have Food, Eat Visions
I want to say I've split the brick
and stepped clean through the wall
of my bedroom to land on the strip
of grass, the city park, in the side
walk in short steps to see the yellow
toasted topsides of the clouds
too buttery to be marshmallows
without tripping
on lips in the pavement
and think about the way
home from so much Friday dream work
and think about the way
chicks must feel
when the lights come on in the hen house
and bang their rays against the shells
and the yolks.
I can imagine they
can't think
about anything besides pancakes
and syrup and sticky vinyl benches
and maybe a smoke or two
at the diner. I better call
my boy and make sure
he's still up for some Saturday brunch
because I mean, really,
you could cup your hand and dip it
in the air and taste
the kind of satisfaction
so often reserved for the carelessness
of being a popcorn fed bird
in the middle of a Central Park June.
and stepped clean through the wall
of my bedroom to land on the strip
of grass, the city park, in the side
walk in short steps to see the yellow
toasted topsides of the clouds
too buttery to be marshmallows
without tripping
on lips in the pavement
and think about the way
home from so much Friday dream work
and think about the way
chicks must feel
when the lights come on in the hen house
and bang their rays against the shells
and the yolks.
I can imagine they
can't think
about anything besides pancakes
and syrup and sticky vinyl benches
and maybe a smoke or two
at the diner. I better call
my boy and make sure
he's still up for some Saturday brunch
because I mean, really,
you could cup your hand and dip it
in the air and taste
the kind of satisfaction
so often reserved for the carelessness
of being a popcorn fed bird
in the middle of a Central Park June.
The Shrub and The Handrail
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
and wave at a stranger,
on his way to his truck full of tools and thatched ladders
and a shabby fast food breakfast and brought coffee
that is never hot enough,
in a way that says
I promise I will make out of this Sunday
everything you would have
if you'd the time.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
with his head and shoulders hanging from his bedroom window
and his nose clear in the early blues of daylight
and the rooms behind him still full of night
in a way that says,
to the walking man's dog
straining against purple faced unconsciousness
to know what is buried a little farther out
just one more inch away,
if we were together
there'd be no leash
because I'd be there
wondering step for step with you.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
and bury his eyes
in the advancing squares of film strip sidewalk and
his hands deeper into his pocket
and his teeth deeper into his bottom lip
in a way that says
to the girl walking opposite
and timing her steps, unknowingly,
to pass him where the sidewalk narrows to a single shoulder width
I won't tell anyone
where we've been
if you don't.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
at the birds, like tin windup frogs in ghillie suits
jumping into and out of the evergreen slump and froth
of a bush that has mated itself
to the banister of the weather blackened porch work
that is staying cool as the underside of a hiking trail log
despite the rising sun,
in a way that says
I've been waiting for
wing friendly weather just as long as you
and I'm going to sing about it too.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
and wave at a stranger,
on his way to his truck full of tools and thatched ladders
and a shabby fast food breakfast and brought coffee
that is never hot enough,
in a way that says
I promise I will make out of this Sunday
everything you would have
if you'd the time.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
with his head and shoulders hanging from his bedroom window
and his nose clear in the early blues of daylight
and the rooms behind him still full of night
in a way that says,
to the walking man's dog
straining against purple faced unconsciousness
to know what is buried a little farther out
just one more inch away,
if we were together
there'd be no leash
because I'd be there
wondering step for step with you.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
and bury his eyes
in the advancing squares of film strip sidewalk and
his hands deeper into his pocket
and his teeth deeper into his bottom lip
in a way that says
to the girl walking opposite
and timing her steps, unknowingly,
to pass him where the sidewalk narrows to a single shoulder width
I won't tell anyone
where we've been
if you don't.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
at the birds, like tin windup frogs in ghillie suits
jumping into and out of the evergreen slump and froth
of a bush that has mated itself
to the banister of the weather blackened porch work
that is staying cool as the underside of a hiking trail log
despite the rising sun,
in a way that says
I've been waiting for
wing friendly weather just as long as you
and I'm going to sing about it too.
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