blog (January, 2003)
If I'm driving east,
my thumb points north down the steering wheel.
There's only to weave streets and hope
for chance happenstance.
I used to have others to run with or romance.
Her window was always within a stone's flight,
If she wasn't there, he'd be game for a late night,
to bait life,
hook and cook fate on the flame.
Always the same, you just don't remember those lows;
I've driven this way twice -- no, more -- before, though.
Silent roads, the houses just listen.
Street lights shine off closed blinds inside mute windows.
I can't open mine or the music falls out when the wind blows.
buggin' out
Why is it that when i come up
I just worry 'bout coming back down?
Never satisfied with filling my cup
Always spill it all over the ground.
