By Torpedo or Crohn's (Live)

Sleeping late, I
hear the sad horns of labor trucks sigh.
My neighbor walks by,
high heels click dry
like half-a-proud
horse down Brook.
I hear somebody's
babbling I mistook
for a cavalry,
whispering "victory"
to the sparks in their kindling.
But all their green woods
wet, and unmet as of yet
by the gases of flame,
pressing against the pending
physics of my passed down last
name. Living in the tear between
two spaces, condemned;
in one of the many places
you're not, I am.
Hiding from my friends
in the bathroom at 'ThriftTown'
to write this tune down.

Today after lunch,
I got sick and blew chunks
all over my new shoes
in a lot behind 'Whole Foods'.
This is a new kind of blues.
And what about losing
limb or loved one in a duel
dissatisfies you of seems just?
As a kid I did not shit my pants much;
why start now with this stuff?
And I do not bluff, second caller
gets bit by a dog or Jeff Dahmer.
Kisses or stitches?
No mitt for these pitches.
Lone Pone one,
master of the cheap pun.
If I'm not raw,
I'm just a bit underdone.
But I'd be O.K., cool as a rail,
if they'd just let us have
healthfood in hell.

Good heaven's background radiation
and the black arts of waiting.
Not the same since I switched my hair-
part and started shaving. Got hexed--
my hidden hair-gone corners.
Oh, I'll never be a joiner,
life long local foreigner, I.
Raw-lung, homegrown fake
in coed naked choir;
second tenor, highest rise,
blessed clever compromister.
I'll be proudly mouthing
'watermelon' every song.
I put the phone to my ear
but all I hear's a dial tone.
Will they map my skull
and wrap my bones
when my wig is gone?
No. I'll go unknown
by torpedo or Crohn's,
only those evil live to see
their own likeness in stone.