Every Grain Of Sand

even the president of the United States Sometimes must have To stand naked.

Bob gets naked a different way.

Every Grain Of Sand In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere, Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair. Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break. In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand. Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer. The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame And every time I pass that way I always hear my name. Then onward in my journey I come to understand That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand. I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light, In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face. I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me. I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand. Copyright © 1981 Special Rider Music

How I Shine

(A Heartfelt Poem, But Short)

You could always pull it off Or pull it out of a box, And end up looking good in pink or purple, In fine or sheer or cotton or fuzzy blouses, In any old skirt with bells on or glitter attached Or with tattered fringe or small red bows Reminding me of Joni Mitchell In all her colorful costumes and paints, But you were better every way every day Because you kept me alive inside. I could speak to you even when you’re not there, You were always in my mind. I guess you still are, even now, Though decades and distance intervene And we are always only conversationalists now. And, like those old self-portraits of Joni on her covers, You carry your beauty with you everywhere without effort. I guess the real stuff shines right through us from inside, No matter how we’ve changed… Even if it were not true, I would wish it so. I would not let it halt.

Bottom to Top

Bong bong bong, ding ding ding, chinny chin chin!

Taking Off My Pants

Taking off my pants today, putting them back on tomorrow...maybe...if I feel that way. Have fun today, that's all I can say--tomorrow we may have to put our pants back on!

Insensible Comedy of Canes and Can'ts

Shit Happens

I'm mad at everything. I'm mad at my teeth.my gums, and eyes, My kidneys and every muscle and nerve, I'm mad because my legs are weak and tremble And give way unexpectedly when I stand And sometimes when I stand up, I sway Or lean too far in some direction, Or just fall back into the chair and can't get out Welcome to hell. It could be worse, no doubt of that. I wouldn't mind killing something, though, Maybe even a whole living race all across the universe (Like some extreme villain in an episode of Star Trek), Or something could kill me, I guess--I wouldn't raise a stink, I'm not particular--either one might be all right If I could just keep it under my hat and from my friends, Or keep from falling over till it's time Or not lose my cane so much, not be such a cripple Who always drops it somewhere that it's hard to reach And if I have to bend down that fucking low I might not keep my balance and land on the rug, Watching TV sideways for a few hours. Each New Day comes with perpetual Idiot Newsmen, Like a dog with fleas, And there's never any good news And they make such a fucking drama of it. Doesn't shit ever just happen, and that's it? All this madness mostly bums me out and I trip on me and don't like anyone alive And before it's over I eat the remote and swallow it And feel the reckless fall inside my head-- Sometimes it centers in my back Like I'd slept on an Anvil Or been kidney-punched by someone who knows how. I wonder now if termites are eating my brain And if I should start eating wood and frass, Just leave the human race behind. Giving no regard to the Fall or to the damage in reality. I wonder, Why is it like this? But the master of all kings and insects, And all the debutantes and diabetics, The author of all Being and Nothingness, Answers, "Why not?" Who knew He was such a Comedian?

Shiftless In Texas

I can't seize control, but then I never could. Paperwork and neverwork keep piling up on me and I keep looking for fact and figure pages in my mail or in my disregarded piles already here that I disregard too soon and I can't remember where anything is, then govt. clowns come around and expect me to know what year and even what month I started this or that job Or what year and month I ended one of those bad trips, I guess they call it my work career, but not me-- I call it something else. You know how rude I am. Some clerk with a bad accent is asking me over the phone to describe What essentially would define my disability, And I would if i could but that would be a success That no emergency doctor nor any steady doctor has yet done. You know, I don't know what the fuck to tell a clerk And I wish he'd die and leave me the hell alone, I might kill him if he were in my face and maybe some day he'll make that mistake. Meanwhile, there's a whole lot of doctors I may kill If they don't kill me first By having no idea what I've got, no matter what examinations they conduct. They didn't know before I had that $40,000 stroke And they still don't know, the fuckwads. Seems like $40,000 would be enough to've bought lunch for God But if it bought any doctors, they haven't stayed bought, They want me to pay and pay or stay away. I make appointments night and day, it seems... The kindliest patient I can find within me Hopes that every doctor in America dies Of anything painful and that eats their soul out slowly. Dr. Kildare, Dr. Wellby, that's just pretentious TV crap-- I think that Puff the Dragon has probably cured more ills.

Eight Days A Week!

I seem to be back to posting every day, if not more. Not very good posts, but all sizes, anyway--small, medium, large. This one's small, if I stop right now!

Study What?

I'm ready to go on to the next subject: my study. I mean this funky room where I seldom pick up the junk and where I'm typing this crap. The place hasn't had a good cleaning since before I got diabetes five years ago. It used to be half of a garage, but was converted many years ago. It was an oversize garage my father built many years before his death with one side for a normal vehicle and the other side large enough to drive his wrecker/tow truck into. It was a spacious garage! So when you picture my study as being roomy, make it Roomy with a capital R! I filled the study with too much furniture, bookcases, stereo, a sofa, and workbenches for my leather work that I seldom do any more. Perhaps I should take up the leather tools again as hobby rehab exercises, but I worry that I'd cut myself badly or make bad cuts in the expensive leather. Some of those cutting tasks didn't allow for much margin of error, I felt then, and it would be worse now that I'm such a wreck. I'd have to rethink it all and not be so insistent on doing everything the hard way, of cutting all my own belt blanks and other shapes. Then again, sometimes the hard part was packing up all one's finished wares and moving them to some temporary sales location--craft shows, etc. I'm not sure I have enough ass any more to do the necessary. It was a thing I did when young without much worry, but I'm not that guy any more. These days I strain to carry a belly around that's 70 lbs. lighter than it used to be. Whoosh!!! But back to the subject of my study. It's semi-isolated from the world at large, though there's a phone extension from the number in the house. It's a straight walk down a concrete sidewalk, very smooth but it floods every time it rains and cuts off casual foot traffic between the study and the rest of the world. I take fluid pills, but sometimes my ankles still swell a little bit, so I'm always afraid my feet will get stuck in my old rubber boots, and instead of buying some larger boots, I usually just tie a Wal-Mart bag around each shoe, maybe top it off with a rubber band to keep the bag high! Very effective for a short walk! How do you like my very disposable boots! Wal-Mart bags are so multi-functional, you know. Well, I can't help labelling this as nostalgia. Even though the subject is current, it makes me nostalgic about the period of time when and before it was built. I had an out of work uncle at the time who worked cheap and did great work building walls and flooring and otherwise doing a total renovation on this structure. Sometimes I helped him, but he and I both knew that I didn't know anything more than what I was told. Fifteen years ago I still had a job and, I felt, my own area of expertise. I can't even imagine these days that I used to work in Pest Control or keep a Safety program going. I used to let it worry me and even work extra hours at it, hours that I couldn't be paid for. I guess I just needed the distraction because I wasn't doing it for anyone else's sake or benefit. I had a "Fuck 'em all" attitude toward my bosses and employer at the same time I was working extra time for free. Just shows that I wasn't ever a very stable person, I guess.

Illegal

(A REVISED POEM, BUT NOT MUCH BETTER)

Is it illegal if I play with my how Or just if I let anybody know now? You can play with yours and I won't mind, I won't turn you in, not if the sun won't shine And not if the deaf go blind! Oh, crap, I know this stuff's so hard to figure, So soft in the herd, so deep in the belly, So stiff in the spine and so far bent over, So much too much for any of us to be refined That even if I drew you a picture You'd want to see less and know more Until it'd all been shattered in the end, Reduced to something looking less Than some figment or some shadow, Some touch of mostly always merely sin That just won't impress us--we're so jaded.

Going Out To Eat

A Sunday finally arrived when all my eight immediate family was in town and not sick so that I could go ahead and fulfill my promise made a few weeks earlier to buy every one's lunch at Red Lobster. I don't go out to eat very much any more. I may order food and take it home, that's as close as I usually get. But everybody ate at the table, I had a good time, and then I had to pay. Others in the family have paid at other times, so I can only claim that it was my turn, not that it was any inordinate generosity. But I am generally too poor to be the purveyor of much generosity, so I noticed it within myself, at least. I never paid much attention to what was on every one's plate nor have I paused to see what the receipt listed. I know what cheap tastes some of us have and what other tastes others of us have. It seemed cheap enough to me. But I am a tightwad, so the topic passes through my mind, as you see. I doubt my generosity this time around would ever compensate anyone for the churl I can be at other times. But it was fun. I wish my sister was alive so she could have been there with all the people she loved and so often helped. I can't say I think of her often, but it's almost always too much for me to handle when I do. Maybe it's better this way. For now.