broken bones

honestly iun eem know why i try anymore







i guess it's the fear of dying alone









back half broke in a broke down chair
both feet broke but i really don't care
bed not made and the clothes unfold
familiar symptoms, i been told

they say the definition of insanity is trying the same thing again
and expecting it turn out different
punched a wall and it broke my hand
got mad at it and punched it again

took my broken foot and i kicked a can
then my other one, the cycle begins
past midnight and i'm wide awake
fo the second day and night straight

to the drewniverse i escape
minus mask, never had a cape
without chain, no medallion
no name, just white tee stylin

man, fresh as the morning dew
orange red and purple light gleam through
and as the cycle begins anew

i could go back to the old drew




trying to do anything to skirt the real issues







even though it's eatin me away



you know i can't let you go



that's how i know i'm going crazy


but i don't know if i can do this
to feel your touch and your kiss
that's the shit that i miss
but you know what?
i gotta be honest

the way i'm feeling right now, i don't know how it's gon work
i know we can deal with these goblins
but we wont just be doing it now, cause i know you'll be trying
and that's the problem

it just won't be the same

but does that mean it just shouldn't be at all?

i guess i'm saying why do we always love the ones who hurt?
treat 'em in kind right?
i should be better than that,
but maybe it's iron pyrite

and even though you shine bright
and it's more than just the limelight
it's your glow
and ooh, girl, i love it so

it's just right now iunno

two for one: "sorry 4 august" day!

Paradigm shift
As a tree loses it’s leaves in mid july
Sun-baked, deprived of nutrients, and water-parched
He, too, begins his slow descent

They depend on each other, the tree and he
The tree, a child in arms, needs the constant care of he
To shoo the pests that would swarm
And feed the soil that does sustain it

He, in turn, is sustained by the fruits of its branch
Nourishing his will to soar
Basking in the arboreal splendor
Shaded from the ultraviolet death rays

the very same that, his protector, feed

leaves hit blades, green tears from its wooden glance
fuel to the ground that now holds it in a strangle
leaves hit blades, dry scabs flaking from its frail phalanges
baked golden brown and delicious by the sun, once food itself

unable to cry for its protector
unable to reach its massive arm, once flourishing, out to he that suckled
and ate from its branch
and basked in its arboreal splendor

perfect symbiosis

now he, no longer fearful of impact
no longer slave to the verdant safety dome
dives with abandon into the brilliant blue
no wing to fly, nor net to fall

an odd thing happens to those faithful leapers
when they abandon reservation
when they conquer doubt
when they discover their own ‘fuck it’ and just jump

eyes wide open into the azure unknown
believing when they are splayed on the awaiting blades
is when discovery and affirmation will reassemble the mess
and this, this will be that which they were always meant

they don’t all plummet.
He glides, slowly and steady as cardiac rhythm
Fueled by the sunburn, now his back
Cheshire expressions as he looks down on his tether and guard

because we shunned august

i thought i'd make it up with something.... creativish....


FEAR

Sixteen was wrong.

Driving isn’t as much the ultimate expression of
youthful freedom for the modern American teen
as it is the ultimate vice of the modern American
adult

Driving alone down a bright
and bustling midday interstate highway,
the mind is ripe with thoughts
of men and women on the trip back from weekend furlough.

Prison

War

Work.

The American dream in Technicolo
friends
welcome to Pleasantville, population we.
We are the lucky few who can feed our vices.

We men of war
we drones
we inmates of societal norm.
we are they by which the gears turn and the cogs
cog.

Let us not forget our fallen comrades.
Those poor unfortunate souls
with their carless nature
and their work-free environment
and their undrafted and non-enlisted existence.

They are the forgotten.
Let us not be the proliferators of this injustice.
To the point at hands
friends

we are not the huddled masses of old.
We are not the huddled masses of old.
We are not the huddled masses of old.

Driving has become mass hypnosis
and we’re all chickens.

We all stay inside the invisible barriers
all the while keeping an eye
for the watchmen.

We mind our speed
thanks in part to the roadside dampeners
zapping our automotive power to the necessary levels
with varied success.

We are mostly powerless against the
omnipotent gatekeepers
waiting for the life giving light of the
bottom face to allow our passage
if only for a preordained period.

On we drive
away from our lives
and back to our lawn care
our 401-k
our mortgage payments
our college loans
our desk job.

Cell walls
tri-faceted and un-flapping
caged in with desk plants
and blue tinted monitors.

Heavens shine countenance down in all its
fluorescent glory.
Fiber glass covered quadrangles
thoughtfully placed

one square separating on both ends
and two across from the next row.
The soothing matrix of the false ceiling
reflects subtly mocking of your life.

So this is the stuff of your dreams:
a steady paycheck
benefits -- dental included
two point five kids, a picket fence
and a well manicured lawn.
In all, a saccharine sweet Rockwell
hanging on the walls of your life.

And a dog.

birth of the blues

They says they was a man
But they ain’t sho’
Don’t nobody know what was this mans home
He don’t got a mama o’ a pappy
Aun brutha o’ sista
Alls he got’s his gitar and a his saaaad sad song
His balls and his word
But dontcha go on aksin him
Cuz he wont tell

Lawd jesus could he play
Eva note the tears o’ the devil
Let me tell it the devil his self
They say he wont born
He like not to eva’ exist
Nary a picture of him ‘round

They say he was come to the cross roads
Full grown, a go’geus black man
Lands a’mighty he shone like wood fire
Beside this man was a gitar carved from
Black oak with strangs a’gold
He git up and looked
Left, was desert, right was a forest
Trees fulla that there
Strange fruit

And ahead was blacker than the heart
That made him
So black ya couldn’t see ya eyes close
And it was sweet as revenge

They say they was a road yonder
Plain as day it shone through that darkness
And it was anotha’n run ‘cross it
He aint know why or what, but he know
He gotta cross that road

And there he go, holdin’ fast to
His flesh bound book

Skin was white as snow in the moonlight
Eyes burned like whip ‘cross yo back
With the finest zoot suit yo’ eyes did see
He was beautiful
And this man called to that butha
And told him he would change the world
If he would give up his soul

If’n he he was a man ‘fore this
He might’na knowed what’d happen
But he wasn’t
He was newborn, green, a lil’ sapplin
And this here beautiful man was a full tit
Offerin’ him the great I am
The world for a soul and a suck

This man they say look at his gitar
Then he look at the snow white stranga’
He say he’d give anythin’ a make that
black and gold moan
And he prick his own fanga
And sign his name in that stranga’s book

Not even ‘fore the blood dry
This here wood fired man o’ ash and coal
Strum them strangs
And sounds man aint neva know poured out
The tears o’ the devil
They say that strange fruit jump down
from the tree, and move like
Like this man plucked Gawd’s breath outta that
Gitar

man look around for the stranga
But he was gone
Nuthin but the smell o’ sulfur and burnin’ flesh
Left behind
And a note that say
“See ya’ in 27 years my boy”

So he was born
Black man sho’ nuff like no other
And ever act to come there afta’
Would know the name
O’ Robert Johnson