donate to ya boy

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


I could say the right word
do the exact thing that makes you live again
speak no artifical hope
blow nothing but quality dope smoke until my lungs whistle like a train
Ive sprained these thumbs trying to get a ride
night in and night out
ive got a boquet of lies thats nothing to write home about
but you
youve got the most painfully beautiful deep and sad eyes
I want you to ride this crossroad boxcar over the pautomic down to the gulf
spend a night
in cresent city as we drink until the suns been up all morning
spend another night at the levy
armed with trainwreck and a semi automatic weapon
in the morning
coffee and a 7 hour trip down I-10
austin comes quick with no hints of assasination attempts
a glimpse into the daily happenings of a classy gentleman
listening to my heart beat
ive felt my feet tap out relays
nothing stays the same
in these the otts
a rude way to constrict time and space in new ways
ive found odd times where the moon and sun shined so bright ive laid intertwined
in the ideas that i had,finally, lost my mind
though I place these notes into a bottle and toss it to sea
hopefully someone out there is just as confused as me
just as open to turning the course of this water tredding submarine
just as noble as a facade of revelry
no more understatements
only factual agreements that we had been stuck
glimpse into the overgrowth


  1. Damnable Whistling Lungs. Bong seems to be the solution for now, but lord knows, one day I shall blow my last puff of ringéd smoke.

    If you're ever up the Coast, stop by for a toast. I'm a long way away by land and sea, but the place I live has a high survivability.

    And thanks for all your work out here - fuck, it's something to read.


  2. Oh, my goodness, I made a horrid rhyme without meaning to. Eeew, it's like pooing in public.