The Shakespeare Amendment

The world ain't all stage--It's sad to say; but Billy Shakes
   He just could not be any wronger
   When he states what's right or wrong
   Or what could not be any stranger
   But, still, he wasn't fooled by hardened faces painted grey.

It's more like half of life's a stage
   with a few upon it dancing
   and they sweat and count their crimes
   and squeeze out gold from flesh of backs.

It's more like half the world's at audience
   billions crammed into one room
   and we sit in dumb amusement
   just well-fed enough to watch
      and growing number with each act.

Priests, and Liars, and Shane McGowan

The preacher scrubbed your sins away   absolved you under rafters
   under fire
   under auspices
Of books with dust in bindings
     layed down many lifetimes thick.
But a preacher needs a pulpit
   like a fish requires scales
Without the choir, no pool to swim.

Senators tell you sweetened lies
   that half us want to hear
     two per state
     means only saying
"Sorry," 'bout half the time
     to half the people, sometimes.
But a liar needs your two ears
and a moment of your time
No need for snake oil when you're well.

McGowan is a drinker, true
   draining oceans of pints dry
   under fire
   under praises, too
From quarters high and lowly
     his legend laid down thickly
But a preacher needs a pulpit
     and McGowan needs a page
Needs pen in hand and needs a stage

Otherwise, he's just a "Shane."

Springtime in North Dakota

Fundraising for the flood
     but there's bound to be another one
     year-to-year they always come
     and wash out the Midwest.

So just ride your bike for high ground
Pedal fast, forget the chests
     that sit there filled with pledged donations
     for the drowning, doomed Midwest.

Sympatico, no?

We're washing in
On waves we ride
     on the Crimson Tide
Washing up
Drying out
     it'll be alright--
Six pack Pacifico, it's all sympatico
and copasetic
          but it's so pathetic
you're living hermetic
     You can't even smell the trees.

It's an age--or it's becoming--
     one of reckless living
     and sin forgiving
Finding time to be alone

     I'm not alone
        I know
    Just one out of millions
Cover streets and subjects and bare midriffs
     pull sardonic smiles tight

Disagreements turn to fights
     but not on my watch
           not on my watch
           not on my
WATCH WHAT I CAN DO!

The Stupendous Calamari,
   that is what they call me
     'cause just
          watch what I can't do!--

Got eight long arms
And no axe to grind
Six-pack Pacifico, that still leaves two, you know
     One to pick up
     One to dial
     Tell you you were right
     Five to put away the empties
     One to save one for tomorrow,
     For the Crimson Tide
     But you never liked
     Never liked that movie much.

And anyway

     Time to take some time to
                       take some time
I got some time for drying out.

Seattle Center Fielder, #24

Some nights
     --it's true--
I get so down
I can hardly shake
     the notion that
     I'm not
   sitting still, but moving to
a state of stillness--
legs are sore
     from standing here in silence.

And I can almost smell the summer...
     in my back yard...
When I still liked the summer...
And we listened to baseball on the radio.

And Griffey Jr. hit 56 homeruns
          in 1997
It was about 6 years before I was this way.

Just put the left foot in front of the right one
Two sides to a street
Pick the bright one every time.

Some nights
     --it's true--
My chest implodes
I can hardly swim
     and that's a shame
   Because
  My home state is fucking shaped
like a swimming pool.
muscles ache
     treading water
     no floaties!

And I still smell chlorine and mowed grass...
     and sun-baked cars...
Recollect through cloudy glass...
Open the window for the soupy summer breeze.

And when I found out that they'd traded him away
          to Cincinnati
It sorta felt like the world came to an end.

Just put the left foot in front of the right one.
Just put the left foot in front of the right one.

Breakfast Got Cold

It's 9 am your throbbing eyes
     pull you towards awake
The town hums hot outside
     to a tune of 13 minutes,
     buzzing nerves; roll out of bed
     and try to calm the fucking shakes
and 6 times
     in the last hour,
tried to swallow
     those distinct, familiar notes

          swollen throat won't go away

You're drying out. You're mopping up
     the yolks of eggs with half-burnt toast
And hearing snips of songs on radios
     down the alley from your home.
But the paint's all dry on this one--
     and this breakfast's monochrome
One more time
     choke back the losses
   on a streak that's growing long
         and ever thicker

It's 2 pm and coffee's tasty
     it's making your eyes ache
The town shares your migraine
And streets laugh at your footsteps.
     with the strangest sympathy
Try to still the fucking shakes
     as you cross the Lewis bridge
Just to shiver with the spirits
     while they howl about your head.

          But, outside, the town hums hot.