Sometimes there's a song...

that is everything you need, at exactly the right time...



oh I'll bet I know what you like
at least think I know what you might
I'm not the most cocksure guy
but I get more bold with every smile

so please, show me your teeth, I'll show mine
I sure hope our P's and Q's don't mind
cause I've been alone quite some time
and I've got to scratch this itch of mine
and I think I know what you know
I'm not that smooth but I'm not blind

the hours pass us by as gin slips slowly
past our tingling spines, cheeks warm and glowing
I'm a social mess but not yet slurring
the words that come to rest upon my luring tongue

oh I'll bet I know what you like
at least think I know what you might
I'm not the most cocksure guy
but I still sure fight the good hard fight
try as I may, try I might
I'll ever scratch this itch of mine
we've all got our vices, this one's mine
so I might not smoke but I get high

underneath this fleshy robe lies a beast with no control
I fed it once look how it's grown
oh my god, bring me peace from this wolf covered in fleece
I can't shake loose from its teeth
oh my god, set me free
I have no ability to cut my leash and walk away

with every passing night my conscience lessens
and seems to pacify these guilt filled sessions
now I'm a social pest but not yet willing
to put my laws to rest till I'm done filling these holes

I'll bet I know what you like
at least think I know what you might
and I'm not the most cocksure man
I take what I get and get what I can

"If you wait to do everything until you're sure it's right, you'll probably never do much of anything." - Win Borden

I shouldn't hate dandelions...

..but i do.
I can't help it.
hate them.
I loved them as a child... I would collect only the tallest and most grand flowers and put them in a vase for display. I used the less than perfect specimens as body paint and sidewalk chalk. I found excitement in freeing all of the white puff seeds. I was always partial to purple and yellow together, and i think it stems from giant fields in the country exploding in clover and dandies in the spring.

But now i hate them. In my yard at least.


At what point does a flower become a weed in one's mind? Is it the seminal moment in which all innocence is lost? When as hard a we fought to stay children forever and play and dance and sing, we eventually had to grow up, and move on, and get jobs, and buy houses. And with so many things out of our control, and so many things which we never decided on, so many unwritten rules to follow, a group of people decided that the only acceptable lawn should be vibrantly green and "weed" free. And now we worry about our lawns when we shouldn't have to.
And I hate a flower.

I'm going to stop hating them now.



These are my thoughts on dandelions. Now if you will excuse me I have a large patch of flowers that need mowing.

Ft. Myers '84

Their quiet glow caught my eye. Several tiny white orbs flickering in the moonlight.

I yelled.
He came.

“Floating on the water?!” I cried
“Resting on the sandbar.” his reply
“What are they, Pop?”
“I don’t know.”

Shoes were kicked off, a shirt thrown down. Grey hair winning the inevitable war against youth, he took off into the dark. The desire for answers and late night adventure launched him into the oncoming surf.

The perfect breaststroke. A metronome. Something I’ll never master. He fought the oncoming tide and disappeared into wet darkness. Terror and excitement at the age of 6, I trembled smiling, screaming to the others to join in this moment of discovery.

Then silence, but for the ocean’s repetitive lurches forward. Had my grandfather been swept out to sea?

Slowly the shimmering bulbs disappeared. Dreadful, adrenaline filled minutes followed… until from the spray of a salty wave he emerged triumphant. I sprinted forward with cries of adulation. Soaked and exhausted he produced six enormous carved shells in his arms. Giant Cockled Clams.

The first sea creatures I’d ever held.

“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” – Jack Kerouac