'Journals'

Well shit, alright,

another winter put to bed kicking bricks

put her in a position to defend

and if I keep thinking of that summer

I'm liable to start growing my hair wearing dress shoes

that I'd never ever shine,

and shitty flowers on my lapel

singing Doherty writing poetry.

Since when were you the brightest one?

the prodigal son at the beat poet slam

weak poets meeting their angry minds stretching metaphors

thrown at the paper like a Pollock painting somewhat redundant

and no descriptive edge;

stark and vivid like torture porn

describing old bricks til the words have no meaning

and you start to miss pictures,

but shit, everyone's a photographer these days

and I'm feeling pretty old.

Jesus, if I could just chop wood and smoke cigarettes

and play guitar at the bingo hall

with the houses that share my well

and a well-kept woodpile rarely toppling,

I'd still mope post-modern and remember now

tomorrow's time describing today cause you were barely there.

Dismal men and women you depress me

that way you dress and how you address me

and those times you didn't say anything

cause you were so scared of humility and sincerity,

killing all the romance, scared to be wrong.

I'm in love!

a shadow of my father's former self,

picking flowers on the hill for Debbie Sherman's cold heart.