Might I impose myself on your conversation?
Why is he a musician? He is lonely.
He has no friends, He is not a friend,
He can't be trusted, too quickly does he forget.
Who am I to breath the words of others.
My thoughts put me to shame,
Who am I to be in your presence,
I am weak.
Hoedee tweedle getchum getchum foodle hoyder
Hope hope hope,
Offen zeep hayder hoff bloyt flop zweet.
Gimme, gimme don't stop.
I listen, I some what understand.
Lift me up, just a little,
but my lack.
The emptiness pushes me up against the wall.
Don't start.
A mirror of rhythms, thoughts, words;
he likes the way the words look on the page.
There has been so many, those with insight, geniuses.
The bums and the poets, the painters and the thief.
The performance artist who sleep withy everyone.
He likes to watch his hands make words.
Who am I to think?
Are my thoughts of any importance?
There are the thinkers and the doers,
those who live and the observers.
The artist and the critics
The politician and the historians.
The lights are bright.
tears, beer.
She is coming to visit.
Hands dance to the music at Lulu's.
I talk and talk.
It empties me out.
Who am I to speak?
The long haired man across the bar says he's going sailing on the bay.
There is a quietness in photographs,
they speak without talking.
No one is listening.
let's dance.
