it always seems I’m in between things,
in between lives, caught between sides,
lost among several different stories—
that gray space in the middle
is where I’m doomed to reside…
a man of disparate cultures
reaching for the high
but always stuck in the low
sifting through reasons,
forever engaged in a battle of why
high-brow, low-brow — never knowing
where to go
or who to please,
so I usually just please myself
and hope my good friend Captain Guilt
doesn’t visit too often…
to say this existence is liminal
would be too poetic — this shit is fucked
is what it is
DO, DON’T
Sit-still, stand-still, aren’t they both the same?
free will or free won’t —
is this the kind of static rhythm you could understand?
gray can be a rainbow, if your once-vibrant colors
have all been drained — by the ins and the outs
the ups and the downs, the resent-laden help
or the damnation of faint praise,
the heavenly sound of a hell that’s yet to be raised…
I’ll sit for a while in this rain and see how soaked
these clothes can get before the flowers start to bloom
around me
Garbage Notes:
This one’s kind of tough to talk about. It kind of encapsulates a lot of the difficulties and paradoxes of my life—both personal and creative, and which of course both seem to meld together and aren’t always dissociable.