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I
werewolf

I don’t like rules, myself;
They hurt my feelings more than anything
Else. They hurt my mind;
But more than that,
They hurt my soul

And I don’t know what a soul’s good for
But following rules.
But it’s my soul, and my heart, and my mind altogether
That have to follow the same rules
On the same day, at the same time
Or someone’ll notice

That I’m not human anymore,
But an animal, or an angel,
Or a demon or something else.
…So it’s in my best interest to put the typewriter to rest
When it’s got too old; and synthetically improve the pictures
In my mind.

Same goes for that film I made in art school,
Before I went to college.
And the ring my grandma got out of a gumball machine
When I was four…
When my wife first heard I had something
Handed down from my wealthy grandmother, she
Thought she was in for a different life…

But that’s not here nor there;
I simply never remastered my soul
Because I never had a problem --
With the way that it was, and’d always been,
Only that it didn’t exist yet.

So here I am,
Trying to explain why I’m covering songs
That no one’s ever written.
And that dim light at the end of the tunnel
Means I haven’t heard the last.

I’m spreading the virus of myself
Like Walt Whitman bit by a mad dog…
Heading home to his cat.

II
bitter cool

The bourgeoisie is still alive!
It’s the only immortal Kingdom of Heaven in human society.
But Jesus was no bourgeoisie.

The lovely lilies of the field in their gowns.
If I’m going to work for money,
I’d rather work in those fields without the lilies.

Don’t get me wrong, I like flowers,
I just don’t like people. Again,
That’s unfair, I just don’t like people when they’re working.

The human kingdom of heaven,
They have some beautiful women there.
A clean, bourgeois artist girl is what I like.

They don’t like me,
That’s the problem, see?
I’ve shit my pants one too many times in public for that.

There’s a deep sadness in that shit.
You somehow get the idea that the stench is in self defense;
Not that I’m the kind that thinks his shit don’t stink.

The shit is still poison,
It’s not something you’d want to eat.
And for everyone’s poison, there’s some of these:

The drugs that turn their back on rhythm
And find the rhyme in the eyes of everyone’s gods.
The bread might be a placebo, but the wine is not.

And I’ve seen my face melt too,
With egg, and loss, and things you don’t explain.
But even the hardest fix goes soft sometimes.

Just look at punk rock, and the jazz scene
Of grocery stores, in elevators shooting high
Or getting down.--You think that security guard don’t swing?

You can share a needle with your neighbor
And watch him squeeze a camel through a straw,
Or oil through a pipe. We’re all Americans after all.

If you’re going to smoke pot,
Smoke with someone happening;
Don’t smoke with someone hip.

Anyone with a library card is in the know.
They have computers there,
The real third eye.

Luminous, luscious, liquid light;
I can kill the president and his assassin too.
I can load guns, roll joints, and turn the tables on my love.

But can I stand when I sit in a sit-in that’s true?
Truth isn’t beauty, and beauty isn’t cool.
It’s cruel. And even the bourgeois can’t stay high for long.