07 June 2011

it's not a western it's a southern

the disappointments start to add up   so  for those keeping score   who were put off by me keeping score   here’s three to the heart three to the lung  here’s three to get off of me before i’m good and gone   it wasn’t a flood   was only a trickle    as if the dream ended  that kind of fickle  and didn’t tell me   the dream just  died and you were still stuck inside      in the hole  the heart   the blood red part    the beating retreatment where these things start  and feelings are the only weapons of war       the casualties gathered two to  a rhyme  with a bit of a chuckle ‘remember the one time’   and swapped stories that took on mythic import  argued details with whiskey said eyewitness reports   but the most then concluded it was not a surprise   that  money got spent reliving a life   that was best left examined by those who thought time wasn’t right  or best left to those on the talking inside   taking serious deeds into uncharted waters   for those who knew me but just couldn’t reach far enough   it wasn’t up to them as much as he wanted the failure was his  don’t deny the departed  that last scrap of truth that he’ll ever utter  this side or that side doesn’t matter now brother  once in a year but a week out of town   the contract got signed   we all heard the sound  that deafening silence of congratulations   the rumble of hunger’s manifestation in minutes of pleasure before sleep can come flying  where dreams of the world are details denying  the truth that you wanted to be your dedication  carved in stone is alone the past came to take me  with a phone message vibration that wasn’t for listing  the moon threw a knife in the sand still insisting  that servitude was not a mere destination but fiddle tunes and claire de lune are pure fascination    the odd little changes in perceived perception leaves the rest of the world in debt to selection  as the middle zero grew a tail on each end  the staring would stop if time could defend  and i heard what you said you said ‘sonofabitch’   it was the fifth day of june come calling  the twitch  that led me to lockport where sad salutations took the place of an evening of proper libation  move that to the right you don’t need it no more   in search of the feeling of long wooden floors and wedding cookie breakfasts with someone worth keeping   times that are almost as good as the sleeping   with words heretofore unbelievably altered and time immemorial hunted  halted  i suppose there’s a wonder why a pat on the arm should    feel like it be like it  do so much harm

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