I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
A guitar string broke
rightbeforeyoushowedup
and
rightafteryouleftmyhouse
I about threw down
more melodies
more lyrics in my head
soon to be forgotten
is it best
to let dead be dead?
Our odd is pretty odd
so that makes us pretty even
You may be god to my say ten
I meant my satan to my god
my god, my god
times ten
Oh, dog
nehw? nehw?
A string rewinded in my heart
tonight at night
and the heart string you plucked
isbackagainbackagain
ready to played
againandagain
ready to played
againandagain
ready to played
againandagain
andagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagain
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