Think Of Me (If you must cry)

Think of me,

When you're sitting beneath that old elm tree-

While my body rests in the roots

I promise son, I'm here with you.

My one last request,

That you don't let that song rest,

That you play me a tune

Better than I ever could do.

I'm sorry you got that guitar,

So young while I was so far,

But I promise child

I'm listening here in the roots.

If you must cry,

Then let that ground grow wet and then dry-

The earth will take your fallen tears

And carry that song to my resting ear.

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Well (And)

Well I still read your poems sometimes,

All curled and cursive

Feeling thin in my ragged hands.

And I still breathe

And I breathe the same,

Except when I exhale

It's your name that escapes.

Well I still remember

And you just forget.

Well you had all the love

And I only sentiments.

Well I still write you poems,

And you just leave epitaphs.

Well, I still remember

Well the curve of your neck,

And pale freckled skin crinking

In the corners of your laugh.

And I'm still cut from hard lines,

All steel and jade

A man of means and demands.

Artsy Artsy (A song)

Never was much of a man

Like what you wanted,

Or said you did to all your

Friends when we first met.

I couldn't play guitar, didn't

Own a nice coat or scarf.

Didn't have much an eye for art

And couldn't tell you who

The Black Keys are.

Well artsy artsy you

Made me a scarf.

Artsy artsy you

Bought me records.

Artsy artsy you

Picked out that pea coat.

Never was much of a man

Like you said you need,

When you hung up the phone

And I knew you were leaving me.

Now I play the guitar until

All my fingers bleed. Look

Sharp in that new coat and

Soft gray scarf. Look at you,

Gave me everything I need

And cut me free.

Well artsy artsy me

Watching French films

Artsy artsy me

And all my wine

Artsy artsy me

Alone at the gallery.

Bella Vino (Rose in a wine bottle)

Our passion is a green glass maze,

All wine and whiskey,

Spent, drained and laying in the sweat

That runs down navel and neck.

Oh forgive me,

Forgive me,

Give me just one more drink.

Oh forgive me,

Forgive me,

If I'm a little clumsy.

Because I drink just so I can feel,

If I feel anything,

I've been lost for so long

In cheap bottles and beds.

Because I'm better at being bad,

Throw everyone away,

Being gone in the morning

Long before anyone's awake.

Oh just see,

Just see,

I don't mean to be.

Oh just see,

Just see,

Thoughts fight feelings.

You are delicate, silent and soft

Dolce' Bella Vino,

Glass I fear too fragile for my thick fingers,

So easily cracked in my alcoholic haste.

Life and it's demands call me away,

My grandmother's grave,

But I leave patient roses in wine bottles,

For you to find when you wake.

Everything Is Cheap (When you're with me)

Everything is cheap

When you're with me

The context of occasion

A formulated equation

To keep you crawling

Back for something more

I'm easy-

With my sideways laugh

My cheap well whiskey

Calloused hands hard

From quill and axe

Pressed into the soft

Flesh of your neck

Broken hearts

Grow hard men

All the same as

Split logs make

For strong hands.

Where I am iron

You are weak

Cunning in

indifference

I see your need.

Any bed you find

Beside another man

Soft and thin, his

Temporary hands

Your heart will crawl

Each Graceful Word (Hung from the gallows)

I still love you in a pitiful way

Like rain sputtering on broken sidewalks

Trying to seep it's way into cracks

I will try to make coffee dates, or movies

Where I will nervously try to place

My hand on top of yours

As you reach for creamer

As you shift in your seat

I will fish for clues as to which bed you awoke in

And to which you will fall asleep in tonight

Hoping and praying it is your own

While hoping and praying it will be mine

I still love you in a way which makes my tongue thick

Each graceful word hung from gallows

Swinging heavy in your light breeze

As I flip creamers

Shift in my seat

Your swift hand always just out of reach

Your bed long divorced of rustling sheets

Our bodies tangled fingers to feet

I will hold you too long in my arms when we leave

Tighten for a fraction of a second screaming-

"See how I am weak!"

My eyes on their knees pleading

I know you will not love me

Your arms alms, the length of generosity

I will awkwardly accept

Quietly begging, a coin in my tin cup

While you pass me by

I know you will not love me

For I am only the rain

While your desire is for the sea.

I'm twenty-three laying in bed smoking a very thin, tightly rolled joint and listening to Buddy Holly. It's after noon, but not much, and the light coming in from the window is thick and warm and falls across my chest and thighs like a blanket.

My mind is thin and tumbling with images of horn rimmed glasses, ex girlfriends and ex drug dealers. They're very much alike I think. It's all commerce of one form or another, and I'd be just as likely to call one or another for a night out.

I live in Detroit, a very poor, very violent part of Detroit. I like it here. I like being the only white person. I like the way my hands shake when I'm checking out at the grocery store and I know there are pairs and pairs of eyes on my back and sides, curious and resentful. I like the walk back, the hostile stares, sidelong glances eyeing up my short stature and bags laden with canned ravioli, soda cans and corn.

I like my neighbors who come over and bum cigarettes at two in the morning, and the way they smile when they realize it's menthol. I like Rosa, and her office stacked to the ceiling with ledgers of curling yellow paper and church pamphlets. I make sure to send her poinsettias every Christmas. She likes me because I pay my rent on time and says I look sharp in my pea coat.

I think about killing myself often. There's an old building next to mine, twenty stories tall and boarded up. I will learn much later in my life that it was where black performers would stay during the thirties and forties since they were not allowed downtown. The history is thick around me, but I am twenty three and self absorbed and do not see it. I drunkenly stumble home past Motown Records often, and never realize the significance of the place. I just think it looks funny with it's white walls and gaudy blue trim.

I don't know why I think about dying, or why one fall afternoon I'm hanging off of the side of that tall building next door. My fingers hold my weight easily, they are short and thick, strong fingers. I flex them, my chest and thighs pressed against the slant of the roof, my feet hundreds of feet above overgrown lot, long abandoned and uncared for. I am dirty and tired from prying open boarded windows and ascending ruined stairways. I think about the fall, and the sliding first, like when I was a kid. I wonder when the last time I enjoyed a slide was.

I pull myself up and sit on the edge, I can see Canada. It's getting dim, orange and sickly red and the wind is much colder than on the ground. I sit there and smoke opium from a pop-can pipe and it is dense and sweet and feels like pretentiousness as it curls from my nostrils and around the collar of my sharp pea coat. The city is ugly, and I am beautiful -a gorgeous stone grotesque just waiting to topple.