Haunted

I grew up in a haunted house.

There were corpses of a marriage hidden in the walls.

An imprint where a fist fight had taken place.

Old papers from lawyers of a forgotten court case.

One summer, a new bride moved in to take the place of the old.

And a few summers later, she was in the ground cold.

But the cops were invited to the funeral, and so the truth was never told.

The first bride of the house escaped. And the other never got to grow old.

You can find her at the end of Bridge St.

She’d love flowers by her grave.

I’m fucked up, but the soundtrack is fine

I tripped out

I tripped in

Fucked up

Fucked it

and when the world didn’t end with a bang or a whimper

I got into my car to wander in the desert

but there’s only so long you can go when you’ve got fifty cents

and day dreams and that’s not enough to outdrive the madness that keeps any peaceful, easy feelin’ from my mind

As the sun beats down on me

I pass an old hippy with lines on his shirt, braids in his hair, dancing aimlessly on the side of the road,

his paisley shirt faded,

and a necklace in his hand of broken prayer beads

I stop to ask him if there is a place to stay,

and he says, “There is a hotel up ahead. But it’s not meant for going or staying.”

I mutter a confused thanks and keep on walking

until I find a faded, neon dream of a sign

that says The Hotel California, flashing in retro pink and white

there are palm trees that line the drive

and from a single, open window, pink curtains blowing in the desert breeze, I hear, “….he was a monster, black dressed in leather, she was a Princess, Queen of the highway…”

and then in front of me, a little girl appears, and she says, “Best keep on moving. We have no vacancies here.”

The music fades, the window is abruptly slammed closed, and when I turn the girl is no longer there.

And my car returns, gas tank refilled, and I keep on the go, a song on the radio that tells me just to roll, baby roll

sometimes hell is hot and you gotta burn a little to survive,

so I just drive, ignoring the wars in my mind

All the pretty maidens

All the pretty maidens lined up in a row

on the sea shore to watch their young men go

off to war for a king they’ll never see or know

one told her beau

kiss me I love you

another said kiss me quick

for we don’t know if there will ever be an end to all of this violence

and still a third

was at a loss for words

and had no kisses to give

only tears to leave on him.

and though it wasn’t much

the soldier still took them

Rain Clouds

I wrote you a love letter

a million years ago

you never saw it

and you’ll never know

how you once made my heart race

how I used to get so red in the face

and all that’s left of what might have been

is old notebook scraps I keep to remind myself

of the girl I used to be

when I looked at you with stars in my eyes

and I didn’t let rain clouds fill my mind

It’s coming on Christmas

Do you remember

when Christmases

were like

fresh fallen snow

that glittered

and you’d wait for it to come all year round

but now you barely know when its passed by

and now its nothing but bits of ripped up

wrapping paper to be tossed out left over on the ground?

The snow will still be there

the magic dissipated

the river starting to melt, nothing left to skate away on

Wouldn’t it be nice?

And the Beach Boys sweet, saccharine summer vibes

were the music that played in

Manson’s mind

as in a house in 10050 Cielo Drive

his victims died

and do you ever think

if we let the artist draw beautiful things

and the musicians create

and embraced softness as neither a masculine or feminine thing

but an acceptable human trait

instead of letting them get lost on the wheel

of corporate consumption and hate

and Hollywood’s masculine only take

that maybe there’d be less blood

and more paint?