TRACK 1 - THE INDIVIDUAL

There are people like gum on the footpath.
Like stains on shirts,
dying slowly of their own construction.
They were all originals once,
but this world hates the individual
while pretending to love them.
It takes them
and slowly grinds them down,
hands them conformity
like an electric blanket.
Teaches them to need,
want more and doubt their purpose.
This world hates the individual
it will destroy them,
but some make it
and live on through
the pen
the brush
the hand holding the bow
with the remote thought
of strange bedtime revolutions.
They shine like the gut of the sun
and they sing
but they are not always heard
sometimes
nothing stirs
but for a bird
or leaf
or mountain.

TRACK 2 - CUBIST MELODIES

Nothing echo’s here,
the rain falls numb with curses
and the sun is defused by the cleverness of nature.

i need another like a rope for my empty hand.

The dragon flies have no place
to land.
They can only last so long.
The trees are giant guitar strings
breaking into cubist melodies
and between the pieces
gage the perfection of chance.

The back room
is full of light
and furniture
and boxes
and pencil shavings
and leather belts
split by the will of freedom
into the hair of gods
and creatures
long remembered for saintly acts
of invention.

I lye like Luke
full of eggs.