end of june and mercury in retrograde, not sure what's on this page, not sure why i keep kickin', not sure why i'm lickin' stamps in a post office sans renegade, watch the memories fade while the freeway goes on by without a thought, i'm self-serving-- meanwhile we're all trapped in bodies, those dark voices getting louder, there's terror asunder! it's reachin' out with its desert hand, while we lookin' to serve some righteous man. i'm sort of like a postman, you can get the message if you want to understand, we all need outlets to plug in, the darkness coming thru on this facebook mic stand-- they act like cockroaches running around since genesis, creeping up through the crevices, we all know who the menace is-- know your enemy. it's been said to me that there's no such thing as free. i can't deny it, can't even supply it if you try it, what's it mean to live free?

For Padre, if he chooses to read it

A son to poor school teachers
bluegrass on a ledge slapping
his knee, a son with mud caked
on his legs, a son pickled bright
laryngitis, on a sunrise Washington
State rose from its evergreen stoop
birdcalls chanting distress signals

"We'll all float on alright"

us writers thinking like we've
somehow atoned for our sins, somehow
the sanctity of the age, future'd-hands,
do bliss hereby sing this point forward
in Autotune.

But the wrens still wrench me from
my sit, and it's all different how we
got to intersections in our lives. let
them in shouts the longhair in my head
screams balconies
family college kids, the warmth only
ice and dew and it's June and the days
are long. Glory to thy name, thy will
be done.

Lies, Believing in them

Visions of the evergreen speak clarity
to you, the sun pouring over Seattle
cement like honey, the I-5 congestion, toxic like
fire eating cardboard, mice hide in your walls and as
you speak they climb

out of your eyes.

Meanwhile my radio dial is transfixed like Sauron
on pop-music misery, tobacco stains on these turn-hugging fingers,
the Patriarch smiles from his landfill Sinai, acting like
a fool I do for you.

And when we're alone the
angels weep all sentimental,
the demons they jump
from their bar-stools, winged
piglets around us are silly games,
our souls in the shuffle only a game
too.

So then, reader, I have a question.
What do we do with Indian Elephants
stuck in our parlor rooms, too small to
eradicate, yet too large to let be?

"Partners in Crime" take note.

It's easier to imagine
the end of the world
than the end

of capitalism.
But it's not impossible
to imagine a new
world in place
of capital-- a world
run on soul and not
on bank accounts.

The Pope who used to ride subways,
me drinking a can of Dr. Thunder and
wondering

why that's a big deal.

After all, in a perfect world, we could
ALL have a chance to become
important to the grand scheme of
things.

Hell, maybe we are.
Maybe you have more of an impact
on the people around you than
the Pope.

Or maybe that's a good way to
challenge yourself.

Maybe you're bigger than you think.

The world opens like a flower
if you yourself become a flower,
change imminent and incan-
descent and if you refuse like
a rock in the riverbed then you
stay a rock.

Being a rock has perks but damn
it's just not for me. I'd rather
float down the cascading river
and follow it down to the sea.

After all, we're all being swept
away into the sea anyway, no
matter if we're rocks or flowers
or anything in-between.

Believe. It's way more fun than
to doubt.

why be a bud when
 ya can be a flower