forty winks
When in hell, you gotta do what a hellion does…
words. music.
When in hell, you gotta do what a hellion does…
Turned backs are for backwards thinking…
an old memory ripping…
A thought-I-saw…
Before the crow, before the dun dust begins to stir…
Perhaps I’m nothing more…
Four-seconds twice ain’t just a look…
To hold a naked note at your trembling waist…
I say look for it better…
What pretentious ceremony I make…
It’s sleep-stealingly unquiet in here.
Be my spoke-wrench; my monkeyshine; my beautiful, neurotic, stupefying strife…
For those who enjoy meditative piano…
If even fruit-looped and burnt-toast then…
A feeble redemption of Dickinson.
More-than-us flows…
“Run for your life!” as some scream through it…
I’d wish myself worthy, were that pearly not so high
For between us there is just dust to water…
And for the golden-most…
For the pantomime sighs and joker-rouge smile…
But, lovey, if you’re quick…
An old memory.
Murphy’s less fatalistic cousin.
All that is green must in time grow old.
Words make better windows than walls.
That’s your fist in the fight…
The first time was strange as most first times go…
If ever there were a man…









































