Thinkin' About You Babe

The Magic Train


every bud hee hee snows

Mother Mary, Jesus, and Me


i wrote this song a year ago and recorded it today

1.

You were not me therefore I will become you when you are gone. Presently you have left. Now I have changed. I have broken and lost a piece of myself. I have not made any outright decisions but my emotions waver with some kind of hidden sadness. Only hidden from sight it seeps from where it lives and breathes as I. When I wake it can envelope my careful breathing into maddening pants. I do dream, of your trials for me.
I do feel I am losing myself in these dreams and my teeth. It gets worse from there but there is no need for needed details this is a feeling not a place.
I have followed barefoot on your lonely trail and now turning away from you I bound through moss, grass, and dirt, bugs, trees, and brush. Out to an open road all around down with far off sounds of the interstate and streams down the mountain under bridges. This sound can become me till the bugs start to scour my face. These dreams can cut in anywhere. We used to sniff glue in a foreign land. I wake to a sober world and drink my wine.
Darling I speak too sharp and make you choose. I don't. I don't choose, my shoes fall on my feet and these words fall from my ink. What I want is difficult for me. It is a necessary thing, it is hard so we become something more. Our love a love of blood and pain will make us whole till it becomes too easy and we must sail away to suffer and grow. I will become you because I miss you even as this piece that seems to be missing was never there.
You stayed and laid with me then strayed where you chose to be. I blame you as a thief blames a welcomed house guest. There is just nothing else to do but think and sit and hope that things get harder that I become more that one person but a family with love inside me sliding all around. My emotions bounce and breath in me. I don't get sick I just get tired. I thought I knew why I was here, it becomes more definite but less clear as I make a close. Close.
I read Letters to A Young Poet by Rainer Marie Rilke last night.

"You must be patient like someone who is sick, and confident
like someone who is recovering; for perhaps you are both
"

It made me happy.
No-one else has stepped muddy feet,or any feet here.

I have a lot of ambition sometimes and I have a lot of plans.
So much can be done if you have a few places you have been known to stay
Some will check all points and making vague inquires.
I stay in motion, all kinds of motion; some static, some magnetic
I turn corners, I take all the care of an able bodied body.
Lumbering, skipping, and crawling into bed when the sun might rise.
At which point I would rise to a stroll and settle to a sit and rock back and forth.
I checked the weather with my eyes and feet and my chest when the wind is trying to choke me.
and you, you are thinking all wrong.
Like I do every other week, you do not know your full story but you are getting it from all around.
Your plans are secrets and you disappear for such endeavors always in disguise, always.
So when I find you I will make you remember.
I will not ask but read your temper like the weather.
When I walk away in dismay you must run after me and grab my hand to look me in the eye.
I may scream and I may hit you but that would not be a surprise.
But I will probably hold you and my bones will fall and my eyes will change a shade of a color.
You will know it has not nor will ever be as long as it seems.
Years and years will stretch but we will never change our names.

These static, formic dreams come in times of confused remembrance
It is never clear but brings a grinding feeling into my bones
Sticky rice, pine nuts and dusty spider webs
This one is faded into a sentence or two but the others allude
It is a pressing, a squishing, and a sandy taste in my mouth
I can see tan shapes, revolving and involving my entire body in a blink
I don't scream I gasp for life I fall in my dreams I grow a distinction
It is funny how people change for the season
We must force things out of ourselves
In places we get caught in sleeping

Or we are lonely homes hiding from far-away storms
Inshore and all land all trees broken from stars
In places we get caught sleeping in