who made you to press organ keys under wooden spotlights
with hungover swaying in Sunday morning rain
for carrying water bottles safely under your arm
down the highway and back
listening to preaching form a pleasant hum
but plastic idols hang around and candles don't shine under electrical lights
chasing archaic hymns toward the grave
well shaved and well dressed, khaki foot steps to the alter
hiding treason or thought or freedom in jazz
keeping in your sharp-elevens and flat-nines
keeping them close to you in spirit
or maybe close to heart
to break free from your cadential figures
of p. a. c. or i. a. c. or plagal or some other combination of letters
strung to memorize, seeing not with your eyes
but with your ears
but you hear with your mouth
or taste what you see
and you judge it in colors
in red sights and sounds
in blue lips and nights
in pink, striped shirts
in imitation shades
in green-dyed drainpipes
cut-off at your knees
cut-off where you please
cut-off towards your wrists
or your pink fingertips
where you hands used to be
where you eyes used to be
lost in miles of fading night
as you draw nearer to the light
to make glimpsing passes of eye contact
dissolving all your contracts
saving desperately the facts you think you're sure of
more than anything
like some blanket to keep you warm
because its cool in this room
and the carpet is freezing into needles
needling your broken vinyl on the wall
making sure that vintage means a couple hundred bucks
and that individuality sells
and that you'll never press keys
'less you want them t' be pressed
make your choice where you have choice
and dont accept where you dont
dont look back
dont look forward
dont look here

make twenty dollar bills to last you days beyond your quota
quoting ginsberg in your sleep, weeping daily past 18
take the county roads as far as they will go, find a home
find a place to slam the shutters, left blindly down the road
til the nights you feel are empty, hollowed trees and hollow centers
in the sun, burning slow, burning bright, burning even through the night
naked, twitching on cocaine and wishing things were still the same
blaming sons and daughters simply for their names
believing only who you ask
asking only who you believe
cycling forward on two wheels
to the street
to the burning New York heat
to the sweating of the dance pit
pitches everyone to the step of your skating shoes
skate on wings, waxing soft
waxing down, down and up
left and right, good and bad
dreaming dreams you've never had
til the characters all sleep
by your side
in your bed
holding over, make 7th ave look crisp and latin
latent talent torn apart until you are all thats left
you, sitting stunned
all in black, all around black
blackened eyes, blackened skin
feeling ultimately disgusted with your books and school and kin
and your friends that just get you high for cheap
looking for something to eat or some way to pass the time
til your money dwindles thin
dripping everywhere, peering out through squinted eyes
communist lies, they'll shout
or shout conspiracy til they don't know what it is they're talking about
and hyperbolic memories, subject to being optimized or terrorized
or publicized through someone else's eyes
designed to trap you at your own shore
sure of everything for now
dont look back
dont look forward
dont look here

who looked so beautiful at first but now is all but sweet
vivid caricatures of her brittle legs and feet
puffy cheeks and hazel eyes
swimming in your morning coffee
swimming in your morning curtains
swimming in your morning day dreams
swimming in infinity
infinitely looped to the divine
try'n' to analyze your mind
written on notepads and TVs
and on lead sheets, bed sheets, metal sheets
scraping at your forearm skin that bleeds a metal sheen
taken to the factory floor
taken out the factory door
wonder what all that work was for
or when you'll give up
when your egos been tied up
and chained and gagged and bound
and wrapped around your little finger
tightly as you tap on your thigh
typing streams of words at breakneck pace
with naught time to waste, not time to pace
racing heartbeat, racing pulse, racing perfume in your purse
on your walls obsessed with 1960s icons
iconoclastic in every way you're not
waves that crash through your hair
causing wonderful streaks that shine in ways that never were meant to be
that make the air around them fit jigsawed under boredom's stare
and wondering how much you could possibly care
dare to look again, dare to be yourself
whoever that is
whoever you are
dont look back
dont look forward
dont look here