Blood Moon

The Moon gives you light and grants you all your indulgences

Never scolding your sins

But the Sun, he is not as forgiving

Repent, rinse, and repeat

The High Priestess

Call upon the terabyte philosophers for aid,

they will know what to do

Getting high on RAM don’t get overstimulated

It’s all temporary


A grocery store full of wax fruit is what we desire

I would kill for some grapes


We’ll all rust before we wrinkle if we can help it

It’s all temporary


The plastic bottle I used to help me breath,

will become the king of the earth

I’m glad I’m biodegradable


I make my way back home after all the pale riders have gone to bed

This is my time.

Highbeam dreams threaten to close my eyes before my trip is through

This is my time.

I wonder if the president knows that the United States gets this dark at night

This is my time

Hairpin turns and solitary acceleration have brought me back to Jericho

This is my time

Will her walls fall for me tonight?   


Subway Toast

This is one goes out to the friends,

who help me penetrate the walls with my voice

from pain, joy, or otherwise

To the ones who stare at the shower drain,

wondering how clean they have to be

to feel the warmth of someone else

This one goes out to the bottles,

who didn’t take it personally

when I threw them against the wall

To the Saints of Sound,

who save us every night

from self-inflicted crucifixion

This one goes out to the fighters,

Who work the midnight shift,

so their bones ache instead of their stomach

To the sun who will bless us with vitamin D,

so we can be what we want to be.

Keyboard Death Threat

Enough of the toxic cesspool of opinions

Enough of the narcissistic echochamber

Enough of the keyboard death threats

Enough of the marketing surveillance

Enough of the self-congratulatory social activism

Enough of the self-esteem roller coasters

Enough of the depression inducing memes

Enough of the misinformed witch hunts

Enough of the humble bragging

Enough of the disconnect from the organic

I was just here for the cute dog pictures,

not all of this

Ocular Trauma

What if all the mirrors have been lying to us?

They conspired for our destruction via vulnerable self-esteem

What if they need to be adored like the image they reflect?

They feed off our own vanity

What if the reflection was our own creation?

They’re just brutally honest

What if that’s not me in there?

Of course it is. Take responsibility for your own transgressions.

Why is it bad luck to break a mirror?

Because a broken mirror is really hard to shave with


The buttons big and small are polished for glory,

waiting for the megalomania to commence

Guided missiles awaken Gabriel for his song

His song can be heard in Philadelphia and Pyongyang

By men of the alley, carrying their cardboard crosses

crying “ Novus Ordo Seclorum”


The redwood trees will outlast this troubled empire,

waiting for Mother Nature to reclaim what’s hers

Wall Street invests in their own survival,

mars is waiting for their conquest

If I bury my melodies in the ground,

will they dig them up as artifacts?


While under the shade of palm trees America panics,

waiting for the rockets to fire

A false alarm will help you realize,

how much of a shithole your country really is

It makes you think about things,

and who you love   


Wurlitzer Punishment

The sun is unbearable and awkward,

my pockets are empty

Not because my bar tab was high,

or my wages are low

But because of  my heavy debt to the jukebox


You can’t sweet talk her into playing,

she only takes cash

I play the same song every time,

in hopes that you can hear it,

All the way up in your tower


But you weren’t up there tonight,

you were out, forgetting my name

The only way you can


I wish I could do the same

But I’m more likely to stab myself in the back,

than admit I miss you


There isn’t any amount of chains

Or whipping posts that can hurt us


There isn’t any amount of small wages

Or long hours that will starve us

There isn’t any amount of burnt pages

Or broken glass that can stop us


There isn’t any amount of voting laws

Or wage gaps that can silence us


There isn’t any amount of Jim Crow

Or burning crosses that can scare us


There isn’t any amount of draft cards

Or machine guns that can change us


There isn’t any amount of privatized prisons

Or racist cops that can cage us


There isn’t any amount of hateful churches

Or Kim Davis’es that can judge us


There isn’t any amount of predatory presidents

Or Richard Spencer’s that can kill us


There isn’t anything that can end us. Nothing.
If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be a part of your revolution” – Emma Goldman

It’s Hard

I drove into a tunnel today and I tried hold my breath

the way we used to do

I can’t do it for long anymore because my face gets red

my eyes swell up and I get light headed

Not because I’m not breathing,

but because you can’t beat me anymore

And I always win

It’s hard to play when you have no breath to hold


I played that Bowie record today and I tried to listen

the way we used to do

I can’t do it for long anymore because my throat gets dry

my eyes swell up and I get light headed

Not because I’m not listening,

but because you can’t sing it anymore

and I never could

It’s hard to sing the high notes alone


I wrote a song today and I tried to play

the way we used to do

I can’t do it for long anymore because my fingers hurt

my eyes swell up and I get light headed

Not because I’m not playing,

but because you can’t play anymore

And I still can’t

It’s hard to write a duet alone