Saint Augustine

I found peace, he met me by a schoolyard
Talked with him about a passing police car
Walked a block on rubber legs
To the church where my mother begs
In the holy building's front hall the gift shop waits
For the nuns to yell "Salvation on sale today!"
But I've come too late without enough change
And I'm still vying for the company of saints
But who's gonna pick up the check
When Jesus's wallet is empty again

Monday Morning Musings

Look at this shit eating grin. Check out the clown serving up shots and taking naps on the side of the road. Will walk for food. Will strip for money. Will forget to remember. I'm losing the appetite. We can find a cleft in this mountain where the sun won't find us. Why talk about what we can do when we could be doing something else? Finding a cure for this national boredom, we'll do a wavy dance around each other, avoiding hands. There's gum stuck under my shoe, thanks a lot, asshole. There's trash cans collecting your obscene thoughts. I'm hiding something in my fridge and I swear I didn't kill it myself. It's supposed to come wrapped in plastic like your mother's couch. You're a dead man.

On Movement

I woke up at 6:34am. At 1:01pm I was sitting up in bed listening to Howard Stern reruns and thinking about nothing when suddenly I was struck by the brutal tranquillity of my apartment. Nothing moved. I looked around my room. The faint rays of sunshine breaking in through the blinds were frozen against the floor. Nothing moved. The bag of weed on my bed could not contain its tempting aroma. But it did not move. Nor did the EZwiders, ashtray or matches. My cell phone, a sleek black talking machine that folds in all directions, could not move lest it was trying to get my attention. The clothes hanging in my closet just hung. The shoes collected dust at a snail's pace. Howard was still talking, the radio loud and soaking my senses to numbness, but it would not move. The porno in my drawer was waiting for me. It didn't move. The food in my refrigerator did not move although some of it once did. The books and the albums scattered across the apartment would not move. The cologne on my dresser could not move. My big screen TV, a monolith of entertainment, did not move. The only things that did were the hands of my wristwatch, ticking in perfect rhythym, never straying from their endless path. I had been stuck in place, rooted in my niche, afraid to break the peace. But I had to. I had to move. So I found this pen and...

Sometimes Most of the Time

Sometimes most of the time I think I'm doing it wrong. I expect less from myself than from others. Maybe its the past; particularly how I've wrapped it up like some busted extension cord and tossed it in the corner. Maybe its the non-existence of the future. My Lord, the present is the only thing that lasts forever. Does this mean I should throw caution to the proverbial wind? Let it all hang out to dry like laundry? Fuck it all, no regrets? That sorta thing? Sorry, my conscience tells me that is much too shallow. How does one ignore the billions of little children called thoughts running through his or her mind at once, like some labyrinthine playground, a new one born every passing moment? I can't stand it! Thinking is in my nature, and overthinking is a burden I bear. Remember when we were kids? Who? What Where? Why? When? How? Myself tells me nobody can get through. We're all just waiting for the bus to reach our stop. Waiting for the island where the sun is just hot enough, the clouds just white enough, the water just clear enough, the day just perfect enough for us to face it. When did we grow so many layers of skin? I'll be honest, there's lots of questions I want the answers to. But that's just half of it. The other half wishes he was brave enough to find out for himself. Patience...