always greener

so they say;

autumn rise, but winter fall,

blue white blankets over all,

and all along that green grass grows

spinnin’ and a-spendin’, never to say,

“here we’re sown, and here we’ll stay,

misted in the droplets of the sprinkler’s spray.”

severe is ice and hostile, wind –

starkly unfit to survive in.

if you think you have money, well, you better be sure.

people are drifting from door to door,

grasses increase their dormancy,

and birds are left to forage.

the herald’s horn froze to her lips.

soon, all ears ring with notes she splits.

and now you know the spring will come,

rains gonna fall and roll, roll, roll!

warmth is born of the frosty soil,

and the greenest grass to grow.

so they say.

sold for wind

so, sing high, you travelers, sing low,

don’t you know your feet know where to go

but your brain is blind to the tears you cry

on the lowly dust of the open road?

if your heart is broken, love,

if your heart is broken, love;

if your heart is broken,

(if) your mind is gone,

well, you’ve still got that morning’s song

and the rolling dust of the open road,

that rolling dust of the open road!

saturday

plants do grow in crooked rows

and the streetlight call them all in line, love

streetlight call them all in line.

sweetly swift and floating sky,

clouds do roll on summer’s sigh, love,

clouds, the rippled fabric, sigh,

i’ve got some time.

(oh, don’t you say what you will now,

oh, don’t you say.)

i am loose, and made of glass,

a rippled place for light to pass, love,

a rippled station of the last whip-poor-will’s cry.

sunset red is all we got and

apple branches reaching, knock;

apple branches, leaves and trunk.

listen up, now!

eight o’clock and where’s the time went?

the concrete steps of a monument

the concrete stepping of my soul,

sent spinnin’.

lo swing

pop’s groove

allometry

big birds lay

big eggs.

muse

you say there’s something that needs finding,

out there in that rugged world,

and so you go, but you’ll be back, someday,

oh, yes, this i say.

raindrops fall from a big grey sky

rhododendron blossoms, pink in hue,

i smile at you, there’s nothing i can do,

so i say, “see your travels through.”

chorus:

and i know that you will find it in the end.

maybe not tomorrow, but who knows,

it could depend –

on where you are and whom you call your friends.

i’m aimless, obsessive, without you –

old folks feeding pigeons at the park.

i count the hairs upon my head.

i don’t know where you are,

but anyplace i dream is much too far.

chorus

when i go out at night,

streetlights line a blanket of orange light.

(and) i sleep much better when you’re by my side,

but otherwise, i will do just fine.

chorus

set out on my old red rocking chair,

smoking my pipe here in the dark;

smell the midnight roses, and suddenly,

there you are,

and when i die they’re gonna throw our constellation

they’re gonna throw our stars into the sky.

and after all, you’ve found it in the end.

a testament of wanderings written by a pen,

and now you call that whole, wide world your friend.

hop skip junket

constituent rock

i don’t care for their politics.

it isn’t what i’d choose.

it’s just that all their policies

are riddled up like rules.

i’d not sell mine to media

to make some sparkly show.

no, i would give my politics

some soil on which to grow.

and what i’d like from senators

is stars and some night air.

i often have a feeling that

they do not even care.

and what i like from presidents

is forests, thick and wild.

however, it’s more likely

i’ll be treated like a child.

but maybe that’s better

than being treated like

a rock                (inanimate)

a brick               (commonplace)

a stump              (useless)

a fence post       (target for manipulation)

some dirt            (below them)

a pair of gloves  (to be cast aside).

CATEGORIES:QUIXODELIC RECORDS, SIMON PILER