Love

Show me your thing
I’m traveled and lonely
and I’ve lost my spy ring
The professor sits high
and stares at the sky
While the skipper sits quietly
and eats her big pie.
Ginger’s just there…
she keeps fixing her hair
And Thruston is bloated
he won’t move from that chair
Lovey, Oh Lovey…
won’t you show me your thing
I’ll wind up that record 
and find something to sing
Lovey, Oh Lovey…
won’t you show me your thing

BReach....

I can remember starving in a 
small room in a strange city 
shades pulled down, listening to 
classical music 
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife 
inside 
because there was no alternative except to hide as long 
as possible-- 
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance: 
trying to connect. 

the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, 
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and 
they were dead. 

finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into 
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and 
monotonous 
jobs 
by strange men behind desks 
men without eyes men without faces 
who would take away my hours 
break them 
piss on them. 

now I work for the editors the readers the 
critics 

but still hang around and drink with 
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the 
Bee 
some buddies 
some men 
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone 
are the dead 
rattling the walls 
that close us in.