pin myself up on the wall
oh, i adore a good display of
heartaches & forgotten times
like crossed legs in the chair
& arms unfolded to make progress
through a newspaper of events. scared
witless by the fact that your inquisitiveness
has not gone un-noticed & has been
completely mistrued, misused

so boy, i've got the samba playing slow
probably because it can't keep up
with everything else in my head. it feels
pretty goddamn good to think in rapid
rhythms of nonsense that stream like forever until
the drums stop beating out your name & oh,
i have done it again

& i know songs don't cure this
& i know sitting cloistered in my messy room
doesn't make an exception, doesn't make you notice
& i know what should be done,
what could be done, what deadline is
about to loop itself around
my very dry neck

i know & i know
but what difference
does that make?

here is my regard for you
i do not want it anymore

so boy, i've got the blues playing real slow
because everything in my head has
fallen away.