I'd Rather Smoke

[note:  if there was ever a tune for these lyrics, I don't remember them.]

I walked out on the street

I walked this way and that

I tried to think of a reason

why you treat me so bad

I went on down to the store

and bought a bottle of Jack

(spoken) Baby, why are you less gratifying than a cigarette?

I walk the dog in the daytime

in the night I call the cat

I've got nothing to do but eat

and now I'm getting fat

I hold a sweater in my lap

and slowly pick out all the fuzz

(spoken) Baby, why can't you give something more than that old nicotine buzz?

Cause I'm lost for the reason

that you make me so blue

(spoken) Baby, why would I rather have a Camel than be with you?

I'd rather smoke

ooooh I'd rather smoke

I'd rather smoke

yeah yeah I'd rather smoke

(early '86)

The Floodgates

I can't stand to be with him

for we have barriers

I have barriers

He has barriers

and I have endless notations in my mind

instead of love

And in the dark

we hold each other

we clench fiercely

and make love

for here, we believe we can find

what we have lost

but in the light, 

we are blank faces

I can't hide in the light!

I can't cover up my fears

I must fight

to look so indifferent

I must pull at my cheeks

for an occasional smile

I must turn away with my eyes

just before they conjure water

because I can't talk -

I'm so afraid of what the truth might be

I can't tell him 

that I'm so confused

There's too much water

pushing against this 

battered dam

why have I been holding out?

when there could be so much love

I must release the pain

in order to relieve the pressure. . .

Floodgate 1:

A father with a mind to my failure

he has never believed in my dreams

telling me I'm wrong

Am I wrong?

Was I wrong from the start?

Will I be wrong again?

Floodgate 2:

A self-centered poet

who wants herself more than anything else

who has devoted her life to love

who talks of pain,

but who cannot stand to feel it

who talks of love,

but who cannot stand to feel it

Floodgate 3:

A set of ideas

of what a person should be 

that would stop the love

if it could

that would make me wait

for no less than a god

Floodgate 4:

A lover who I love

but who falls short of the mark

who has no words to love me by

who's so discreet when people are around

that I sometimes wonder. . .

Floodgate 5:

A need I have

to share and to receive

that the public may know it

that world may know it

a need I have 

for some devotion

Floodgate 6:

A necessity for attention, sacrifice,

that primordial touch

and an understanding of love.

Now that the floodgates are known,

let them open, and release the river

so I can claw my way 

to solid ground. . .

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.

Application to the Forgiving for Consideration in Love

Dear Sir:

If I could know love, then I could love.

And perhaps I do. . .

I am a young woman, five-foot-six, with dyed black hair and green eyes.  When I was a child, the profile of my nose was like a ski slope.  I have a spot between my eyes from when I had chicken pox.  My lips are fat, but my cheeks are fatter.  I don't like how I look without make-up.  I always wanted to get compliments about my eyes, but I hardly ever do.

My body is confusing.  I have no waist, and my hips are too high.  My stomach is always a little fat.  My breasts hang down in a useless sort of way.  But worst of all are my thumbs:  One is longer than the other, and they're both too short.  And my fingernails are flat and boring.

Dear Sir, these are only the externals of what you will have to overlook in me.  I am cold, but emotional.  I am pretentious.  I am ungiving to the depths of my soul.  Deep within me is a calloused, dark thing that could cause me to deny your existence someday.

Shall I go on?  I'm self-centered and self-serving.  And self-righteous.  

Do you love me still?  I am demanding.  I am moody.  I am reserved.

If, kindly, you will give me a chance, however, I might be able to find what you want.  For I do have a smile.  And I do have a look.  And when I dress up to go out, I really can look great.

And I've got a strength.  I've got a power.  I am intelligent, but not obnoxious.  I enjoy happiness, but I have serious concerns.  I love doing things for people.  I love people.  And life.  And this, I might share with you.

Dear Sir, please, take this hand, and hold this wretched thumb.  Take my eyes and behold them as emeralds.  Take my heart, and feel the strength and the energy that pumps my blood.  My love beckons you.

Dear Sir, please overlook what I have learned to overlook in myself.  If you will bear the burden of my shortcomings -- if, in fact, you will see some beauty in me -- then I am yours, all yours, for eternity.

- Jan 4. 1986, A.D.

That Deep, Begging Bed

That deep

begging bed of grass

rather soft

rather irritating

it's where I lie

most of the time, these days

the snake got me early 

so I ate from the picnic basket

it's no wonder I had to

share it with you

with a severed lip

I made love to you

on solid ground

and now

we torturously cling

to the edge

of the cliff

and I want to mean well

but the skin of my fingers

is coming off

how can I smile

when I'm trying to hang on?

you don't understand

why I bite

because I hate the infant

but I love the child

so roll over

I need some room on

this flat earth

we'll find the missing sock

tomorrow

we'll toss the grease out 

another day

don't you worry

just keep looking the other way

and you're bound

to miss it, again

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.

Intermittents

I can remember, now

I feel it again. . .

That pitch black blanket of time

flowing in, flowing out of reality

limbs, entangled --

whose limbs?

Flowing in

a blackish gray movement

adjustment

then, a definable motion

tentacles, smoothly sweeping over

my grayness

my tepid --

Flowing in

I check again

is it skin?

There is something

blocking my aloneness

Flowing in

it's something 

completely outside of me --

foreign

but as gray

almost as familiar

adjustment

it moves again

Flowing in

my god, it's a hand!

Oh, yes, of course

it's a hand

warm, defined

I find a hand, myself

I move it across they grayness

in front of me

Flowing in

it's him, again

we stir

I entertain a thought

What is the time?

I keep my eyes closed

Flowing out

no matter

no worry

no more thoughts

warmth and stillness suffice

-- and the vision

Flowing out

quicksilver going down

a fountain

some words I'll never 

remember

Flowing out

into blackness

and streaks of colors

Heavy, heavy

Here,

I have no grayness

to call my own. . .

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.