since i was a kid

so what don't we know?
there's a lot being hid;
the missiles have been pointed
since i was a kid.
there's angry old men,
they point and they shove;
they fight about peace;
they quarrel over love.
they trade in their blues;
they expect you to lose.
they'll lie to your face
and call it the news.
there's a sound that they make;
they'll want you to hear
all the songs that they sing,
and what words you should fear.
all the clouds in the sky,
a bright sun burning thru.
i'm putting faith in myself
and i'm relying on you.
don't heed their calls;
tear down the damn walls.
so what don't we know?
there's a lot being hid;
the missiles have been pointed
since i was a kid.

already after noon

i'm running on an empty tank
nearing the end of a very short track,
the nearest sun is behind the moon,
the land under attack;
it's already after noon
and the clouds are grey
but i asked you to stay
before you melted away.
the circling stars are black,
and i tried talking to you,
but you weren't talking back.
i'm falling through our relationship crack
towards a safer place to hide:
no one of consequence standing by my side,
maybe to sleep in a heartless shack,
a nearby magazine unread,
headlines reporting what other people felt and said.
i'm running on an empty tank
nearing the end of the short track;
the nearest sun is behind the moon,
the land under attack;
it's already after noon
and the clouds are grey
but i asked you to stay
before you melted away.

herds of buffalo

don't even try to crawl over desert rocks!
the political pollsters and bobby socks
collecting answers to all the easy questions,
underneath the shooting stars and harvest moon
arriving late or stumbling into the busy streets before high noon,
are remembering herds of buffalo and passing tribes with tents
but favoring apartment blocks and monthly rents,
a change of tune and a five hundred dollar bill;
waiting for the next dance with a weekend thrill,
betting on a Kentucky Derby horse or a passing bus,
watching the super bowl and all the halftime fuss;
drifting over the sound a free-running river makes,
excusing how the white man takes and takes,
singing bible songs within a hard-seated church
while not seeing the eagle flying from her wind-swept perch,
or a Spirit vision or endless wild grasses waving in an vast prairie,
or hearing the wisdom of an ancient forest tree.

fighting for my life

oh snow
how much further can i go?
fighting for my life,
dodging your famous Bowie knife;
and a kick to the shin.
come on in
it's already approaching midnight
and i'm in no mood to fight
or to roll off the corner bed
do you remember what i said
when you tempted me with a wink?
i found myself face down over the bathroom sink
watching my skinny life
dodging your famous Bowie knife.
but by a quarter until two
i told you i'd always be true
no matter how you washed and dried;
no matter how i laughed and cried
we'd be together on the city street
smiling to all the strangers' we'd come to meet,
dancing on a mountainside or on the lonesome beach;
i'd keep you within easy reach
and with a nod and a kiss,
a little of that and some of this,
a lot of high and a little low
no matter which way the cold winds blow
oh snow
how much further can i go?
fighting for my life,
dodging your famous Bowie knife,
and a kick to the shin.
come on in,
i can already see your grin,
so squeeze me hard.
keep me off my guard!
oh snow
how much further can i go?

how he was bred

striking out on your own
listening with your sympathetic ear
ditching fake news and crazy foxy TV views,
tuning out the monstrous fear
to find there's no easy walk in the park,
no easy ladies dancing in the dark;
it's ugly or nice with big or small bowls of fire and ice.
but, hell yeah, the passing stranger said;
being mean was how he was bred
many miles from the state line near 5th Avenue and Main
and now building his border fence while celebrating being insane,
traveling to the far right side of a busy railroad track
and that's an undeniable fact, Jack!
his hot air is blowing hard;
a gambler playing his terrible hole card:
but change is coming, the immigrant voices said
jumping up jumping out of a terrible bed,
going downtown or wherever the freedom winds led!
striking out on your own
listening with your sympathetic ear
ditching fake news and crazy foxy TV views,
turning out the monstrous fear
to find there's no easy walk in the park,
no easy ladies dancing in the dark;
it's ugly or nice with big or small bowls of fire and ice.
but, hell yeah, the passing stranger said;
being mean was how he was bred.

chasing an elusive ghost

fixed bayonet!
baby, here it comes:
the napalm jungle smell,
the fighting drums,
singing war is hell!
body bags,
frightened soldiers in rice paddy mud,
khaki rags,
fields of blood:
no more bombing!
no more death!
no more war!
chasing an elusive ghost
across the floor
into a sea of fire
on the other side of razor wire:
a missing leg;
a worn out boot
teaching children
to stalk and shoot!
burning skin and harder eyes
falling from the morning skies.