sitting here
working at nothing
it’s so hard to see
What became of the little boy me?
Maybe I’ve seen him reborn
(but) when did he die?
But I’ve seen him reborn
in the pain in my son’s eyes

sitting here
working at nothing
just killing the time
Wondering what’s filling the tears in my eyes
My boat lost its float
upended, capsized
Now in my lungs – I must wrung
life’s blood and demise

sitting here
working at nothing
with fuck all to do
Wondering what little you’ve said that’s been true
Maybe once – upon a line
how did I imbibe?
can’t remember… did I come here?
now I’ve run out of time

Now just left are the good-byes
Now all that’s left…


In the quiet moments – all to myself

Free; no relation to anything

There is a yearning for release

To a tomb of alabaster – fine marble statues

Set aside by some forgotten country-side hill

A monument of once held respect

Loosed and left; no longer loved; abandoned

To time. Then natured

Whose slow reclamation

Consumes all bones

Returned as mulch

That feeds

The souls




Bumblin’ Bees

Boy, sometimes, you know, I just feel like a piece of dirt walkin’
Ain’t no use in being, even less in talkin’
There’s a burden to be, but I can’t feel it for nothin’
I guess it’s just for those busy bees we call sons and daughters

So, as expected, I walk just a little, here to there
Find a little shade ‘neath a bridge or a bench, up on a square
Being a bumble of a bum, tambourined extraordinaire
I sleep on the breeze; stained glassed windows, incensed air

Then as I go, you know, this dirt bakes, it cakes up and up
‘Til it seeps into my knees, creates in me a waddle and cluck
Then there’s that burden in mind; it can’t all be for nought
I guess I’m just for those bumblin’ bees we call daughters and sons