To die a death unfit for such a prince,
But Oh! to live a life so wildly remiss!
In each word writ, the of such flow'd forth,
And with such life, the pleasure of one's youth.
             But cold and dark amongst his years of thought,
             The joys of this: his one final ticket bought.

The years so pil'd on our sweet poet's head,
All generation of contemporaries dead,
And yet, our sweet ren'gade liv'd a life on par,
With which he wrote; a life of guttered star.
          And finally, to all of us advised,
          After ticket bought, take this, his final ride.

For us to ride, our outlaw poet did succor,
Tormented Angle, laws of riders so abhorred.
And thee, of all my influences have remaine'd
To me, the spark of such a sparkling life ungain'd.
          And in his mind, climactic chances to expand,
          Did lead his conscious heart to force his heartless mind.

And in his final vigilante act we see
The final truth of the, his reverie;
A chance to quit this too-long world by will,
By choice, with choice of time, and place, and final thrill.
      No sympathy for him ever deign we to bestow,
       And to him and Him, the Devil, bid our outla poet go.

Take your time they don’t mind
And I’m sure you will find
That they are all friends of mine
And we’re in this together

To Institutions,
Youth and Expectancy,
Our hero stands averse.
No privileged position
No heightened standing,
Feels he an asset.
And so, departs.

Upon return,
Sweet embittered youth
Becomes pretentious sod.
Superior inflections to "phony" world.
Encounters she of ill-trade,
Yet necessary conviction lacks.
And to him and we, the readers,
Unfulfilled climax

Then in and to familial fortune turns,
Where comfort resides,
Lies our hero's final chance:
Repent and acquire saving grace. . . 
Results in offer spurned
And "Catcher" flies in Phoebe's face.

Focus on the setting sun
Focus on the setting sun

The road stretches like a spine,
Serpentines through valleys,
Rainbows over mountains,
Arrows over fields,
The endless vertebrae.
Rivers chase us and run along our sides for miles,
Darting back into the land, mischievous in their disappearance,
As suddenly as their arrival.
And we smile, our hands fighting the wind,
Our hair blowing, our little nests
Nestling each,
And the cans pile, and the music plays,
And we laugh.  Careless.

Focus on the setting sun
It’s alright, she said

But you make a noise,
And nobody notices,
A shudder,
But we do not stop.
You muffle your sensations of pain 
And they go unheeded,
And we carelessly let you bleed.
After endless speeds and gears,
And stops and gos,
We pull over to find your silver skin smeared in your own fluid,
And we blame it on you.
For not working,
For not keeping up,
For not helping;
But mostly for not knowing how to fix you.

And our heads hang as we listen to the neck-tie drones
Report their own oil spill,
(Although it's much more serious, 
We'd never know then)
And the sounds of us arguing 
Mixes with piped-in elevator music,
And seems oddly fitting as
I look at you raised above my head,
Knowing it will never be the same,
Knowing we can never leave,
When all I want is for you 
To take us far far away.

I can’t see what you see
I can’t see what you see
I can’t see what you see