well, i have sown untidy furrows 'cross my soil,
but i am still a coward;
content to see my garden grow so sweet
and full of someone else's flowers.
sometimes i can almost feel the power.
sometimes i am so in love with you.
like a little clock that trembles on the edge of the hour
only ever calling out "cuck-oo, hoo-oo, hoo-oo"


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only love is all maroon.
lapping lakes like leary loons.
leaving rope burns --
reddish ruse.


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i can't afford to pay for harp lessons anymore, and i have to give up my harp because i can't afford to rent it anymore, either. i want to die.

edit: pulling some strings. keeping my harp. (get it?)


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i got a hand.
so i got a fist.
so i got a plan.
it's the best that i can do.
now we'll say it's in God's hands.
but God doesn't always have the best goddamn plans, does he?


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she said, "my sails are flapping in the wind."
i said, "can i use that in a song?"
she said, "i mean the end begins."
i said, "i know. can i use that too?"


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he made an enemy of all of you.
it's him. not you.
you never heard it from me, but there's a breach in the hull of the truth, and the water's too deep to prove.


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so you say it's the hair of ghosts.
so i say it's the white hair of poseidon, ebbing in the tide in some dead sea.
so you say it's some shroud of turin, and the sun wore it white and the earth wore it thin,
or the sun wore it white and his faith wore it thin.


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why am i such a shit bag?


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boasting to boast.
toasting to toast.


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