Pot Helps pt. 29

Trying to touch the sky
every time
feeling up with hands
and feeling fine
feeling myself dying and at the same time
being alive
feeling, well, alright
feeling like I want to buy you
a sandwich and a sprite
is that okay or even just like
close to being a little alright?
listen to me smile
cant you feel me, like
being so, like
fucking right?
you know, with me wanting to be
everyone's light
my falsetto tenderness that only when I lay down in the weather and leaves of fall
I can provide
help me hide
help me gut these fucking traitors tonight
help me chase em all down and teach em the law of fire
the law of Nof
the law of getting you off
the law of leaving dust and not caring about it all
leaving you sore
the law of mystery eyes and minor chords
always wanting more
the way I can touch you with my vocal cords
and how you can't even help but to be all like standing up and shivering talking about how
it makes you love me
that much more.

Pot Helps pt. 28

I have to breath in and out
in and out
in and out
doubt
climbing like I could see the sky
and I always see your hand held out
help me out
help me down
help me turn this car around
cause I need to make it go fast
make it go forward
need to force our cells to feel the g-forces
cars, not horses
with four wheels in motion
body pillow emotions like a sprawling dark ocean
or like the oil in the gulf
howling like a wolf
because of this iron grip
oh please
don't let go of this hand or even let it slip
or add to my fucking doubt
forcing me to sit down
and breath
in/out
in/out
in/out

Pot Helps pt. 27

I left it in the South
where down there everyone is an open mouth
And I wouldn’t have had to feel this way up to and including now,
no, now
If my tires weren't going ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round
to the inside sound,
and the outside sights,
To the way we can’t help how we are all always bathed in light, even at night
and
Out here on those American highways with names that always end in a zero or five
I was adding miles, subtracting time,
feeling finally alive for once in a lifetime,
feeling like I could have screamed your name to stop time,
and live in four-bar measures that do nothing but repeat your eyes.

Because I don’t need shit, as long as I got my weed and my wine,
you fucking goons might as well be dying the way you live your lives
Always on the try, reach, achieve,
never on the do.
Always on the ‘this is what they say I am’
and not the ‘who am I, who are you?’
And I’m not about to label all the things that make me down and out,
war, family, friendship, money and doubt,
Not going to gather and organize my pouts.
Not going to stop and listen so you can tell me what life is all about,
because I’m the ugly mouth, the afterlife scout,
the one your mothers should have but didn’t know how to warn you about.
the one who pays no attention to the mongering, stuffing, spitting, open mouths,
the one who says:
When death comes, I’m out.

Pot Helps pt. 26

Perhaps you noticed I don't just go along, to go along
I feel its wrong
I feel it the same way that I feel songs
the way I feel what's wrong
like a perfect ass in a thong, hid beneath sweatpants
I could rant,
I could rave,
I could make you dance
I could make you wonder about the stars in the sky and what happens when you die
I could make you dance
But I don't give a fuck about that,
only about that big ole butt in them sweatpants
oh man
making me go "oh man"
like I just made a mess in my pants
What the fuck
and who the fuck
and where the fuck do I get some peace?
Can I get some non-attention from beasts?
Thinkin' I want to cancel my body's lease.
And I will.
I've lost all possibility of thrills
you wouldn't even know what it's like at all
until,
out of the periphery you see that big ole butt in them sweatpants
and you can't even lift your head,
let alone dance.

Pot Helps pt. 25

Mom?

Yes

Mom, I need you to use better punctuation with me please. Prove to me you want to be here.

Ok.

Mom?

Yes?

That is better.

Why am I here?

I brought you here.

Why?

Because I miss you.

Oh, well-

And because I hear this song 'Hunger Strike' and I think of things like the early 90's, your time, our time, when we lived in the cabin over summer and fashion was the way it was back then and I was a stupid ball of flesh and you would rock the stereo all day and the Van Morrison and Black Crowes stopped up in there in my brain somewhere back then and dropped off a little beacon that activates when I hear them again and it causes me to think of things like....like..., I guess it's just nostalgia.

That was a long time ago.

I know. But it isn't really, because I swear when the ringing timbre of a guitar or vocal melody punctures me in a way I feel for certain that I can look into and around and I can feel it around me somewhere like I'm in a chair blindfolded and it's some freshly cut, open orange being waved around my head in orbit and I know it's there for certain because it just is, because it's there, but the problem is I want to take a grand carnivorous bite out of all of it and to finally feel it all at once the death and the life OF IT ALL and the pure nasolacrimal emotion OF IT ALL, the pure, pineal orgasm of it and I just can't and the best I can get is one fleeting citrus whiff of it all around me and it's just too much sometimes because it's almost a huge letdown if not for it coming around again and again and teasing me and sucking me in to ponder and waste time wondering about it thinking about isolating things like death and such and getting all fucking confused about it and guessing myself up and down a fucking wall and the worst part is when I do get a good whiff of that citrus, light-filled emotion my first reaction is that I should write about it.

Wait a minute,-

But when I go to write it all down it's not there because it's like, how do you digest a whiff of something?

Hmm.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

Is any of this real?

Unfortunately no. You are dead and I'm trying to fill voids with poetry and musings. And dialogue about how I ressurected you, on page, in order to find out what you know about what it is that drives me nuts day after day and what forces me to do the poetry and musings and dialogue.

Hmm

And if I can't even breathe enough life into to give you punctuation then what the fuck can I even do anyways?

You can die

I can write.