Piles of pink insulation bury mismatched, rusty wheels and bald, cracking tires on top of unusable American pistons or whole automobile engines or whole automobiles.

Elk antlers in boxes of various electrical parts soaked with used motor oil dripping slowly onto a soil covered floor.

A stack of two-by-fours in front of the shelves set up for organization and filled with CB radios and random chemical compositions.

Tools everywhere but just try to find the one you need under hardwood flooring or recycling or leftover carpeting or plumbing supplies or my old drum set or my destiny.

I'm sure that this will come in handy some day. Let's hold on to it forever.

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There's hope out by the oceans, and little in between.

Not carried by containers unloaded by large orange cranes.

Trucks and their trailers can't bring us peace.

There's nothing in the water, nothing in the air. We bring it together with meetings by the piers.

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Fourteen thousand miles wasn't far enough for answers to questions I'd still ask.

Late at night in the alley on Blanchard. Under streetlights, we touch one last time. My car is filled with the last of my things. I don't want to leave everything.

I'm sure that the chemicals on this photo are terrible for my lips but some things I just don't care about anymore and photos and memories are all I have left.

My hopes were dashed on rocky cliffs in Santa Cruz where you carved "pals 3/96" when that part fell into the ocean one tumultuous winter.

So I prepare anesthesia. Scalpel. Four inch vertical incision. Thrust in my fist. Stitch up emptiness.

Because second chances may come never.

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This is the biggest small town I've been to. That skyscraper may as well be a general store. Instead of many post offices we might as well send our mail from just one.

Thirty miles to the eighties in any direction. Past wants in the north and east or needs in the south.

If this bus would ever get here, I might sneak on and sit next to the crazy guy.

He'd ramble on about the untouchables drinking coffee behind glass as the world passes by.

And I'd tend to agree.

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Traveling with eyes closed doesn't keep you from harm. Ignoring the sights is the same as blindness.

Change doesn't start spontaneously it begins with one voice speaking out.

Our beliefs and knowledge mandate action since these problems should be solved by those that see them.

Start a band or a venue or a zine or a label. Start solving problems.

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There's nothing to wear. The hand on the corner of the closet looks so weary

through pre-sunrise light. Perhaps if this body were less average

our externally imposed self-loathing wouldn't drive us to drastic measures like surgical retail therapy.

That image almost obtainable mostly impossible is everywhere.

Just wear makeup. Just start a diet. Just wear the right clothes. Just start working out. Just stop being yourself.

What if the image was erased? Could we move past categories to individual definitions of attractiveness despite the opinions of others? That might be beautiful.

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Close the door behind me. Off the porch step, morning cold shocks me into involuntary smiling.

I love the way the sky looks right now. It's still so cold and I'm an hour late for work but I don't mind. My breath condenses in cold air as I just stop.

Partly cloudy skies on fall mornings. Lows in the forties. No one notices but me.

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Are these grey spots blank spots between poles of white and black or are they the logical point of consensus?

When I stand up to speak out I know someone has my back. There's really no us or them, just us working to figure all this out.

Continued questions tear down misconceptions as we travel toward common goals down roads not always straight.

When I stand up to speak out I know someone has my back. There's really no us or them, just us working to figure all this out.

No matter what, I am not alone. No matter what, I am not alone. No matter what, we are not alone. No matter what, we are not alone.

When we stand up and speak out we know someone has our back. There's really no us or them. There's really no them at all.

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I guess the sixth commandment is "thou shalt not kill unless justified by the logic of faith."

Please save us from "Please save me." Please save us.

Work with us to make things better for those who don't need to be saved.

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We pull the oars that drive the ship to sights in the distance we don't need.

We follow orders barked by the captain. We follow, we follow blindly.

(At the expense of everything, produce, consume, destroy)

Want it, need it, buy it, own it. (Kill the whale.) We will not want it, we will not need it, we will not buy it, we will not kill it, we will not kill it, kill the whale. (We can turn aside.)

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The mids are in the middle. The microphones are already exactly right. Try that note in tune next time.

That tattoo may not be the best idea. Not everyone has to notice. Not everyone needs to be impressed.

You jump in with both feet and an admirable lack of fear or consequences.

But ultimately the path we take is determined by conditions we choose to ignore or accept, not by the footsteps of others before us. Not by the footsteps of others before us.

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The cool thing about being invisible is that you never have to remember anyone's name.

If they can't see you, then just maybe you can't see them

and you'll be safe from projectile weapons. And everything else.

You can go anywhere and no one will notice. No one. No one at all.

The problem with being invisible is that no one knows you and you start to fade away.

Trying not to fear is like trying not to feel and that's just not possible for anyone so take small steps and learn to find safe places in visible life.

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Late in the morning, we're driving through fires in Montana. I fell asleep at the wheel, you steered us into crashing with the throttle wide open. You weren't badly hurt but I am almost dying.

You heal quickly it seems. I need a better surgeon or need to be a better patient. Be more patient.

A few hours lead to new days. A few hours lead only forward.

Late in the morning. I will never understand. Late in the morning. I will never understand.

Late in the morning, we're driving through fires in Montana. I fell asleep at the wheel, you steered us into crashing with the throttle wide open. You weren't badly hurt but I am almost dying.

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Don't we want this message heard? The chance of action from the widest possible audience. Is it possible to remain honest?

Don't we want to improve our lives? Quit our dead ends, get insurance and warmth and credit. Do we need to always just make do? Can't we afford the finer things once in a while?

Don't we want this to mean something? To the kids who close their eyes singing along so loud.

Shouldn't we aim to inspire? Should we inspire ourselves? Do the "minor" sacrifices of major league exposure warrant the costs of the change?

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This is far too much food at far too late at night.

We spend the most time between rooms or throwing things.

We'll clean up the game room someday. The neighbors have not complained.

The gash on your head from the drain pipe will heal eventually.

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Everywhere three colors. Forced American pride breeds feelings of fear led by men in suits.

Right now anywhere, anywhere looks better.

Problems stem from home. Scapegoats are mirrors. Though blame is easy, responsible is hard.

(Spoken part about 9/11 and Palestinian liberation or something.)

In years to come, faded flag stickers will remind us we could change this by not being afraid to talk to strangers.

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It appears that solid theories form fertile soil to plant this seed for all.

Pull out the weeds that choke back the growth of our beautiful idea.

Nothing else we know of will fit here.

What is this disease that hollows out our creation? All strangling weeds torn out at the roots should ensure its survival. Yet it withers, it withers without them.

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There exists a rigid system of axiomatic thinking. In this framework, truth is just logical deduction.

However such a creation is necessarily incomplete, for certain statements are unprovable within the system.

When one comes across such situations where logic fails and no postponement will lead to conclusion,

Chances are the answer is already known.

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Isn't the point to look forward to Mondays not 65 and a cheap watch and cheap goodbyes over cake and pats on the bent and crooked back?

Vending machine breakfasts, mobile lunches and Top Ramen for days prolong the endless waiting for something better like weekends, retirement, or worse.

Perhaps the problem is not the job but the systemic degradation of the work of the lower classes for the betterment of those already better off. Because it turns out only sewage trickles down.

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