The Pennyman and the Cloakmaster

I have not often in life made myself available
Nor made myself scarce

Nor have the morose entanglings in my throat been often chunked up

Perhaps you should be grateful for each of these
But how would I know?
Why would I care?

And therein it is;
The pennyman and cloakmaster
Neither of them disagree

Pavement/Notice

The seer is blinded
The interpreter of words, deaf
Pale tales given crooked legs
Overcoat drowned
Cityplaza streetshopshining
His insufficient revolver removed
Inept stairwells and circle corners blame it on his ears
Lack of balance, they tell us
Lack of vision
Lack of resolve
Lack of mercy

Man, his nerves on pavement like loose spagetti wheel
Sets his clocks by sounds of local cigarettes
And prostitute vignettes

Witnesses spool out on duke's rock steps

Poison Clover

Your lips are hardly eternal
And your legs never existential
Barely anything I ever asked for
Chrst girl, you're not at all what I asked for

You never once became what a woman's supposed to be

These fields thick with poison clovers
Walk close to me

Funny Girl

Ah, you're a funny girl
Funny smiles and walking down mall aisles
Supposing little boys' hearts on a string

Ah, you're a silly girl
Running back to your place and sigh about silly things
Or laugh or cry and spit

You sure have a funny way of showing you care
You sure have a silly way of sticking around

240 at 7th & D

I forgot there were so many left-hand turns on the ride home
I apologize I didn't look over to see your perfect blonde/blue face

Though I should have taken your offer for the inside seat,
My shoulder couldn't handle your arm/heart burden for the afternoon

If it makes you feel any better,
Christ himself doesn't get through clear anymore

The Airlicker

Lighter
The night flickers
With his newly lit joy

The airlicker
Grabs his jacket lapels and huddles close to the embers
Cracks his left knee joint
And remembers

Resignation

Ok, so someone should take you and your soon-to-be 23 year old smile up on the offer of borrowing Zoolander from your trunk. I'm not worried about getting fired for such things, I'm just afraid you're like the rest.

I mean, really, why do you look at me and smile? I've thought maybe it was my ass. Maybe the time it came out of the men's room with toilet paper in it (so I have to compensate by making a joke of it). Maybe it's the fact that by the end of the night my hands and head are dusted black (maybe that's your thing, I don't know).

I'd like to think my soul is burning some sort of incandescent incense.

Though, I know it isn't the size of my penis... I suppose the way I was standing in the light earlier must have given the illusion of of girth or something.

Or transitor radios in your head happening to play the right tune... Or the fact I can't speak my mind properly when in your company (but I never can).

I want someone to love me for no particular reason. But when they start to, I know it can't be true.

Maybe you just want a C.

But really, it still stands to reason you're lips should be kissed and your offer taken.