Be a lover,
Be the greasy spin
Of mind in madness,
Spiral and sway
Of clouds and trees.
Be the cheap section
Of a good time song list,
And missing strings
On a good sounding guitar.
Be a warm evening
As buzzing whips of
Crackling cans opening,
And a creaky lawn chair
Hopes for strength.
I don’t walk with a swagger
I’m not a callused hand
I don’t wish for stars
Or four leaf clovers
I sing with a guitar that holds a tune
But my voice is held under water
In a rusty tin can
So I sleep in a cold corner
With a sore back on my side
I run out of gas
When I’m driving too fast
And my knives all go blunt
So my pencils aren’t sharp
But I’m still trying hard
To grow something again
This did not grow up as a chemical
We were legs and arms that took too long
But that’s the end of a string
I didn’t bring nor did I sing
But I stood there like sweet nicotine
With salt between my fingertips
That had a history of danger
So take my hand that’s never left
Joking in my Sunday best
Take me on a pleasure ride
Along the hidden tide of your good time
Take me to the ocean rise
With your breasts and lips so sensitive
Catch me in an open book
That reads like the sweet look
You’ve given to me, carrying me
Roads to anywhere that lead me to harmony
For I’m taken here with you
And I’m resting on a rock
In the middle of my thoughts
With you and a dog that took me along
Have you seen what hides in the field
What grows in between, down on the ground
My tidy shoes and a singing guitar
Take me along.
It was late July
And there stood every Grace
Sun spots and vinegar
And a cigarette in tow.
She thought she was cool
– Dusty cowboy boots –
Humming out my sweetest tune
She smile and blew a kiss,
So I leaned to see
But missing me was the point
I left a mark on her guitar.
She had eyes that looked afar
There I, off in July
And there stood every Grace
My heart torn
By the very sun
And I run so I run
And I cry so I cry
In late July I wondered why
To the sea that swallowed me
Left my heart up in the mountains
I’ll need a shovel to get it back
One too many lonely days
Without a warm gunnysack.
Had a song bird on my deck
Whistling a tune I’d never heard
Sent for a fine six string guitar
Came back with an ol’ banjo.
Went off in the meadow with my lover
She had on a little backpack
Got stuck in a swamp with little booties on
Came out with her bare feet black.
Oh, troubles around every corner
Whether you’re looking back or not
Creek still runs, dog still laps
And I’ve gone back to my lonely shack.
I hear the sounds of last night’s rain
Dripping off the guitar man upstairs
Like he’s drinking an unmarked bottle of wine
With candles stuffed inside
Green colored empties everywhere.
His pancake heart is shifting
As his torn-bottom baggy jeans scuff
His unease like a broken pencil
And no sharpener.
But two fifteen will buy a slow drip
In a soft-white ceramic self-logo
– Without refill – from a beanie-topped
Organic cycler that always smiles
And talks in soft tones to her cute co-worker
Humoring her choice in music.
I’m a dress rehearsal stranger
Without a fixing for the road.
I’ve been picking up the faggots
That get me kicked out of the bars.
Did you walk away a stranger
Cause you were too caught up in gold?
Or was the ever piercing sidewalk
Grabbin’ tight your leathered soles.
Melting through my summer windscreen
Before the widows shake their brooms.
We were wrestling with officers
Gettin’ some fiction on their tongues.
Laughing without smiling
It’s been a mighty cold balloon.
I haven’t forgotten promises
With cheap hotel hookers
But the minister I never knew
Said, “Man, it’s not right timing after all.”
For there was one forgotten apple
That lay rotting on the ground
Which everybody avoided
Conscious fingers up their nose.
Butler’s on my side
To tell me all he had to say
Which was spoken very dryly
As he fit the classic part.
So I knew at that very moment
All their was ever said to know,
Which took me down to Georgia
To lay down my old guitar.