the remnant of an outlaw. (revised)

maybe you could have told me why
not all my actions have consequences,
and that gravity is just an invisible prison.
or perhaps you could have described to me
how each wrinkle on your face
was actually a scar,
and that time was simply
supplemental to a lacking life.

your fits of anger and tiding rage had reason,
i think, but i suppose
i will never feel that foundation.

they stole your sanity,
and they stole your concern,
and all they left your lonesome self
was a provocation.
subdued and bound in earthly chains
you buried yourself beneath haze,
yet my own memories are not clouded,
not of your view.

i will never know why you saved those years for me
or why i can't let you rest in peace.
the memories continue to loop when i drink
and i begin to realize
i do this more often than i thought.

behind that fragile shell
cased in bigotry and malice
was a man i still have yet to become,
but come soon.

they say your heart faded fourteen years
preceding your body.
i wonder if they will say the same for me.

this heart runs on steam

here i found i feel volatile again
my heart runs just as a steam train
so pour it in with what's in reach
to keep it running you fill the breach

but that void's hunger will never end
the heat always burn every friend
that get too close once let in
that get too close once let in

because this heart runs on steam
this heart runs on steam

the engine races without looking back
dragging the train down that track
picking up its pace and falling apart
headed to an ending that didn't start

here i found i feel volatile again
the heat always burn every friend
that get too close once let in
that get too close once let in

because this heart runs on steam
this heart runs on steam

the heat always burn every friend
but that void's hunger will never end
you got too close once let in
you got too close once let in

because this heart runs on steam
this heart runs on steam

nothing to say.

there are those nights when the words
begin to flow right through me
and i'm too drunk to write them down
or too tired to remember
and too lazy to care.
there are nights when i have nothing to say at all
and there are days that i'm carried
from one to the next
on nothing but words i should've said.
we're told if we have nothing good to say,
then say nothing at all.
it would seem that over time
this is the only lesson i might ever really learn.
so i'll just keep my goddamn, self-punctuated mouth shut.

a waking life. (revised)

in a waking life
you see the sun set and
you rise in the early hours
to hapless moments
measured in clock-ins
and coffee machine coffee breaks, and
Monopoly money paychecks
and empty smiles from co-workers
with four kids,
lemon cars,
disability, diabetes and cancer,
and two mortgages,
and cats that eat only table scraps, and
none of them know
why they persist

you work your way to the top,
reminiscence about the good-ol'-days,
take out student loans,
date a few pretty girls,
and hunker down to a homely place,
and buy yourself a quaint, little house
on the good side of town
where you can share years
of marriage, and maybe
some children of your own
that will go to your childhood school
with those favored teachers you still recall,
where you can become a part of the PTA
and bitch about taxes,
about foreign trade and immigration,
about oil, global warming and traffic,
about family and friends, and bank loans,
about big business, Darfur and BP,
about the kids who throw rocks in your yard,
about God, government, and the whole world twice over,
you can complain about the meat from the supermarket,
and how they're teaching your kids,
and who's running for president,
and where they're building the newest mini-mall,
and when your boss promises to get you that raise,
and why everyone thinks your DUI was a big deal,
and what your ex-wife got in the fucking divorce

and then in a waking life
you see your son set in
motion absolutely everything
you never wanted for yourself,
but couldn't think to ever prevent.