Lester's Labyrinth

dream

2004-11-16T22:25:00.000-05:00

1 of 15. A Lester's Labyrinth Book is in the works. Let me know if you're interested and I'll make one for you

brain lotion

2004-11-16T22:19:00.000-05:00

a lunch room distraction was the catalyst for this photo.

dripping dreams

2004-11-12T15:38:00.000-05:00

goodbye to the dance of tomorrow. hello to yesterday's package rereouter network bitpiece distributors. crowds of prisoners showing feelings under their painted on frowns. i am a prisoner to those rabbit hammers and darkened corner dream workers. they took all the toys from the attic and left it stale and musty without purpose. familiar songs drip from my dreams without the screams, without the gargled glass throat sores and tension aches floating down the evening stream. joy still persists despite the clamp on the tortured and tested mind that rests inside my skull.

back to where i started

2004-11-09T16:37:00.000-05:00

unleashed and unworried. piano dragons slayed my heart but I have a skin that won't borrow from anyone.

Hello from the nether regions of my mind

2004-08-20T12:36:00.000-04:00

world news review

2003-05-01T11:40:00.000-04:00

In the rough and on the mend watching the curves the pitching & the serves nonsense is easy truth is sleazy reviewing the latest world news you can't win if you'd rather lose

in the light

2003-05-01T11:39:00.000-04:00

there's a red door opening there's a splinter of light there's a shard of truth there's a ray of honesty there's a hint of hope there's a bronze statue in the park it's better here than in the dark

those who have

2003-05-01T11:33:00.000-04:00

futon frame crammed in the back of the corolla, trunks of memories to spare, eyes of innocence fixed on the middle of the road doing like you were told, held captive by that beautiful time in life uncertainty, unknown destiny the age of dreams by those who have.

despondent dust dancer

2003-03-26T11:42:00.000-05:00

I throw a glass at you. lose my shit and find myself. can't put a price on it. this aint right and i aint wrong. night and day put to the side. sleeping in a deep bright cave. lose what you find, hate what you save. it's dirty dirty world but i got a bowl and a broom.

the fleecing of Sacagawea

2003-03-26T11:40:00.000-05:00

sound & fury in colonial america. judging amy with a pistol in her pocket. Open plains and smoke on the horizon and in the middle of a mid western city street. palms & break lights & white nights and stranded bystanders waving. bargain sale components on narrow street side walkways. in the burgeoning days, evil was good and good intensions didn't fit in. Reversing history with the flick of a switch.

on the brink

2003-03-20T11:42:00.000-05:00

Maximum capacity reached stranded in the breech, on the brink and at attention the lanyard wire rests transparent in the street Renoir ate the leaves of the thistle tree I want to join him on the edge of the sea bulging arrows point into thin air the bulk of the weigh propped on the edge of the gate swaying only in the heaviest of winds gallantly gleaming with the pride of a whore the stranded minds of our pigeon chested leaders want me to wear the cap that reads- this war is a bore. I ain't gonna watch no war no more

midnight fate rage

2002-10-29T11:43:00.000-05:00

here's to tracing paper and the hordes of honest owners. here's to backwards towns and the upside down frowns. here's to the retired mop man and the laundrymat queen. here's to the bracket booster and the uptown cuticle rooster. here's to the tossing and the turning and the midnight rage of fate and the pressures of love and hate. here's to the sanctity of what is and what should never be. here's to you and me.

dismantled and mishandled

2002-09-24T11:44:00.000-04:00

rosy cheeked subordinate border. dragging her sorry ass out of the parlor. disgusted and distrusted, she is the problem. wasted in her smoking porch, they wonder how long she's gonna last. dismantled and mishandled. the family outlaw grasping for something to brag with but the furniture has all been sold.

fumbling and stumbling but on two feet

2002-09-03T12:28:00.000-04:00

tossing it back and forth between the brain and the future. commonalties, mixed realities. positivity, strong proclivities. sorrow and fame, saving the game. rooted in sanity, backed by vanity. grabbing the clutch and deserving more. watching your friends climb off the floor. token leader, backyard breeder. always amiss, sit and reminisce. the city of brotherly love and good neighbors. so strong in its hometown flavor. dreaming of where it was and how and then and now and when. it's all combined and refined and behind me now. in front and behind and slow to rewind. slow motion midfield play. fumbled the ball back at the 20, picked up again, remembering when. fumbling and stumbling but on two feet.

compression repression

2002-08-28T11:46:00.000-04:00

compressed and repressed. designed to have flaws and lack of liberty laws. mounted on the muffler and wavering in the wind. restless in the rest home. weary from the way and wondering when we'll be there. stranded off the island with no straps or bagel bags. the concrete dreams develop and there is no meaning to divulge. blank and bold, his heart's been sold for an empty bucket of gold. bring back the mandolin man and the city fuel fire.

dragging the dragon

2002-08-10T11:47:00.000-04:00

whipped cream and sandwich dream...sounds like a bar none course on how NOT to develop an atom bomb. the dreams and visions keep coming without relent, without a tent. the dis and the dat and the ratatatat...brining home the bacon without a skillet to put it in. the money stays at bay and cost costs more to pay (than ever before). the waiting minister says to his sister...i didn't mismanage the funds, I only became a brother before the war. i was a staple at the local rendezvous point. i was running the joint. it doesn't make sense to you but i understand. the captain was left standing there dragging the dragon.

pocketed smiles

2002-07-19T12:30:00.000-04:00

thinking aloud. acting all proud. dreaming of wishes never meant to be. the dream of the stream and the simple flow from arm and elbow. stop to wonder. a wish and some thunder. groping and moping and rhyming the timing. all balanced stupidly on the back of the mexican sunset. the days go by without advancing and the smiles get pocketed for a rainy day.

flowing rivers of magnitudinal joy

2002-07-04T11:48:00.000-04:00

bless the flowers of eden dancing on the banks of the wabasha. save the bond salesmen from reno. drink the cup the floweth over and spills on the cape may boardwalk. dreams of sand and bags of brand washed up on the oceans forearm. solid stairs and crisp corners tucked inside the modern second home of the anesthesiologist. rivers flowing past the vacation homes and bargain basement wife swappers convention. to dream the dreams with how it is, not the way it seems. inside the break room, outside the boardroom, inside the darkroom, balancing on the exposure beam. the river flows , the river flows, the river flows, on and on and on and on.

frolicking on the ruins

2002-07-03T11:49:00.000-04:00

the golden orb overtook the bragging tropical sunset. dust settled around the camp fire. stories and brandy and cheep vodka and swirls of swollen kneecaps and undigested information. brown sky morning. sound guy warning. breathing by the pinhole in your bag. wondering where she's from and where she went. ice cream parlor lights yellowing this summer's eve. lamb faced moths and flies and foreign objects fluttering. the counter top wiped and clean. clean like the back of her neck. you're staring. a few strands of the sweet, sweaty hair subtly clinging to her bronzed colleged neck. campfire again. bad company, good vibration baby. the smoke grasping at the night air, slicked and slacked, back around the bend. the days of pinioned pontoons. frolicking on the ruins.

bricked and brokken

2002-06-25T11:50:00.000-04:00

the road, bricked in and broken. stuck in the roundabout with the clout. glimpses of shoulder straps and tanned legs in the corner kitchen mirror. dragged through the detour detector without a care or a cane. these are the days that he didn't dream of. wearing it on his shirt, badges and badgers and messes and dresses and packets of dried flowers and tossed salads and see through tape and tight squeezes. the silent sorrow of the morning gathering. capped solutions and better breathing. tension torsos gone unmanaged. battles from without and within. rising temperatures and declining sales. breast pocket lunches and broken forked tongues. bring the ladle this way with the ways and the means. insatiable appetite for nearness and now. i can't balance the bricks without a scale.

tailpipe dreams

2002-05-22T11:52:00.000-04:00

misaligned mirrors shine a light on the white and the scattered wrappers and shredded convenience store straws. beams of love through the modern makeover package. stripped of identity and meaning, the day plods before me like the golden ghost horse of tomorrow. zapped and gleaned, stretched and cleaned, the morass, the crevasse, the golden arches of the rising valley. breast bags and tulips, sandwich bags and quick sips. all in a day's work behind the invisible plow, the modern cow. compensation for the deliverance of excess and desire. who delivers the feed and the fire?

tangled brambles

2002-05-05T11:52:00.000-04:00

lost in the lurches of time, i sit here propping the possibles against the probables. heading to the reckroom, i wish for the back pager to dance like she did the night before. not knowing the last name of the sergeant in arms, i referred to them as dusty, luster and musty. it didn't matter that the time on the meter had run out. the maid was waiting there with high heeled sneakers. the brambles, all tangled in the distant camera vision of the headless sports aficionado. don't pass the buck you stupid schmuck, bring it on home. bring it on home. bring it on home

froming broth

2002-04-26T11:53:00.000-04:00

the battle axe is dull. resting on the porch next to the caged black bird. the moss and the wet granite and the overhanging limbs. the backwoods beauty. engine hums, flap your gums, it's time to start the party. the froming broth is on the countertop. wrap the trout, shave the stout, walk into the madness of the early morning night. stop the truck at the edge of the bridge. it's out or in, lose or win. miles and miles later, you've seen 7 different towns that belong to noone. the potbelly stove in the corner of the cove. the atrium, the plastic bags, the tail that wags. it's all new, it's all you, it's the new way and it's here to stay.

yearning and earning

2002-04-08T11:54:00.000-04:00

back in the old folky days, there were no thoughts of truck drivin ways. i sat and wondered about the glow of the finger and the mighty moon... the interrogation scenes, the kino pravda journals and the smiling goon. now, the bratwurst mumbles to the diving instructor and the brakes are firmly applied. dreams of red geese and golden gander...the slippery floor and the jander gadander. missions slip and fade and sunbeams break the border with ease. the stars glow bright without a fight. yearning replaces earning. a life is for learning and the grave is for turning. i'll deliver the packages, you check your mail.

the abyss before me

2002-03-20T11:54:00.000-05:00

monitor all aglow. the sharp angles of the plasterboard walls to the right and to the left. slipping around the back towards the input channel, i slither down the arrow stamp into the wind, passed the socket exhange system. i can see the motherload stretched out across the darkened technorizon. dust pockets abound in the corners and above. the exterior hum now becomes a piercing, suffocation agent of sonic terror. my work can not be completed. i exit in haste and the florescents attack my senses until i crumble to the linoleum. there i lie amongst the scholastic morning may lay and the discarded tools of the trade. noone to notice, my doom is eminent. only now can i enjoy myself, in the peace and the solitude of this desperate moment of lingering life. the tackle truck rumbles by outside, the foreigners are busy communicating with their punch pads and the all night vendors are retiring their wagons. the time whirls around like a speeding recycling truck in the early am hours. wasted and sweaty from my self inflicted delirium, i wander through the vacant halls of my mind. the linoleum wraps itself around my thinning torso. strecthed out and abandoned, i grasp for the lone source of nutrition, a meaningless and meager morsel. in one fell swoop, i injest what appears to be a dried and damaged walnut. i am content. the sweat subsides and i fill with a warmth, a complete sense of wonder invades my body and my upper eyelids begin a slow motion journey towards my lower lip. i have been infected by a rotten walnut. i join the other side. i no longer exist.

static stapler

2002-03-15T22:56:00.000-05:00

floral arrangement falling from the overhead. bouncing sisters emerging from the nunery. look, it's maria over there with the green frock and the birthday clock. ticking and tocking the hours pass by. apple fritters and lipstick stains. unsold merchandise and dreams packed upstairs. $7.71 each with a quantity discount if over 250. glossy print and shrinkwrapped for your convenience. slap down the flatback and wallow in your arrogance. you night shift practitioner. you deserve the back breaking trust fund that waits for you in the silver bullet bank. back up. pack up. you're in it for the long haul. save your voice, you'll need it for the tunnel.

waiting for the hatching

2002-03-13T22:57:00.000-05:00

the days turn into weeks, the weeks into years, the years into tears, and the tears into beers that slide right through you. down through the braghuh and the briguh and the bobagaloon. the slap happy flippin and the granpappy floppin and the jimminey cricketdagroodle, da grottle. a lot to expect from a happy whore who just sold her store. the least she could do is sell the well behind her vacant lot, open up the plot. not much more than an evening bore but somethin to satisfy the middle man stuck between the lines of age. read between em. it's hard to see em but they're there. wedged between here and now and then and there. easy to conceal, easy to reveal. peel slowly, discover undercover. the dust and the rippled plastic can not hide what lies inside for their is wisdom from within the confines of the coverings that we all wrap around our sleeveless gowns and tailored tops. sleek and smooth, they attempt to soothe the pressure in the hose we all try to compose. it doesn't matter what's in the batter, it's what's on the ladder, waiting for the climb you can't manage, the cost you can't cover, the course you can't complete, the enemy you can't defeat. all of this laying there in front of you, the mess of your life, the dreams that came true, the beautiful blue, the solvent on the base, the charm of the case, the socks that are not matching, right there on the bed. all the while, waiting for the hatching.

selling the stars

2002-02-27T22:59:00.000-05:00

backed up over there against the clovered bank. horizontal with brows barely visible. the scratched surface reveals itself from behind the barn, kittycorner to the branding palace. crystal clear and crystal light, cost of goods and costa mesa. the blanket above with no links to voices on the end of a black plastic clip-on phone attachement device. the evening error lends itself to passages and bags of leftover salad. blanket, rumpled and solo, i have gone to meet the maze man. not far from the sand bar or the chain or the barbed main office entrance. the amber glow from the neighbors pork bellied pot teaser distracts but only for a moment. a flash from the distance distracts. a brief moment of breath, circling around the granite weight of reality. then i resume and the stars consume and i wait for this passing phase to sink its teeth into the soft and fleshy remains of my last great hope.

georgian grave dreams

2002-02-25T23:01:00.000-05:00

a plastic shower curtain wrapped around. they do not know today what they will someday. sounds from above and helicopters buzz. the frantic search for nothing less than something. it's the world of today. i'm glad i've gone away. what blatant disregard for the soul and the living. dig a hole and bury the buzzard.

bugs in my brain and salt on my skin

2002-02-13T23:01:00.000-05:00

bugs in my brain and salt on my skin. toast tossed and kicked aside like some strange midnight timekeeper. standing on the banks of the swollen channel, i look west and north, refuse to look right. figs and follies aboard the passing ship. sin sailing away over there. peaches rolling against wet side boards and crusted hooks sunk into aging doorframes. beach grass bent. ancient signals sent. the glow of the summer sun and smiles and coolers and neon car spoilers and gritty flip flop walks to the late city bound bus. then, the couch, crackers and dreams of soft rocks and broken bits of candy corn. the glow fades to green and haze and good turns to bad and right turns to left. scratched skin and darkness packed into tight, shallow corners. three legged chairs and rope and breakfast tables with no edges and tilting bathroom sinks and cracked, rippled plastic countertops. the blur, bends aroung the missing key and the rack of lamb drops to the floor, the bubble in the level isn't there at all anymore. the confusion continues with the madness of a balding rooster mocking a proper stool pigeon. it all paralizes the wandering afterschool program director. then, the alarm sounds and the briefcase carries me to work.

underground navigation expert

2002-02-05T08:37:00.000-05:00

he was accustomed to practicing what he preached. this time, however, he surrendered to the whims of the small round object. this time, he found himself running through the swollen corridors and past the bronze think tank below the campus center amusement booths. he laughed out loud...beneath his brethren but above his ancestors. his mind crowded with images of soft silver walls. water seeping through the ancient underground aquifer network and the orange glow of the gatekeepers lantern. iron crusted keys and vertical doors with no handles. side steps that lead to the next level filled with musty overgrowth, dried gardening utensils and pagers dropped through cement overflow grates. he retraced his steps every time. the only way to return to from where he came. darkness gave way to the passage of time. above and below. he could not escape the maze or the haze or the ways in which he lived his life. above it all now, he washed the object with a damp towel and collected his belongings. it was time to pack the jack and wrestle the tressle.

hilltop bag waggers

2002-02-04T08:40:00.000-05:00

bag waggers on top of the hill. all aligned in staggered miltary rows. waving their bags and brandishing their stripped necklace strings. the wind just as you would imagine, strong and steady. the bag waggers stand bold and brazen against the strong arm of the wind. treetops bend but they do not cry. whistles whistle but they do not weep. planted, terra firma, with their scarves all eskew, the bag waggers evenly spread across the suburban skyline. water towers and pistol shops punctuate the blank horizon. the vegetable man and the county clerk wave goodbye for the day. bidding their bids while airing their airs and casting their shadows. hands in pockets to protect from the wind and the worry. crags and crops and soft, milky sapplings. paths, tread and worn like some out of focus, distant ancient slide show. water, pooled by the swollen depressionist collector, just over the grassy knob to the east. all the while, the bag waggers, in the distance, standing stupid and stubborn. all of this, classified as a fetish on someone's homepage. a standard drop down menu item on this unremarkable winter's eve.

east of the chippewa river

2002-01-31T08:42:00.000-05:00

this is serious stuff the engineer shouted. a calm blue overcomes and the sorrow surrounds. steam all gone by now. nervous snickers, eleven cars back. the flume and the bloom. sudden jolts cause the doors to rock on their hinges and swing as if on a decline. a long decline. into the tunnel with no brakes. oh sugar sugar, don't look that way. i can't bear to see you not being able to bear to see the light at the end. the scarf covers the eyes of the lady at the bar. frozen like some sad modern day comic fair preacher barking at the top of his lungs to a crowd filled with people waiting in line for the port-o-potty. barking the legends of history and country weekend bazaar programs from memory. passed down from his mother's mother, the fairest one east of the chippewa river.

brad's bog house

2002-01-28T08:44:00.000-05:00

we all used to go there on weekends. slothing throught the peaches and the pears and the lost math assignments. a great old delapitated shithole, tin roof rusted. rooms with nothing. rooms wth everything. beer and bottles and broken fishing line wrapped around the trees. the view, laden with sphagnum moss and stupid pet tricks. all around, the secrecy and solitude, the parting of the ways, the loosening of the leash. the introduction to our wild years filled with nasty wishes that never came true. folded and molded, things lay on tables with broken legs and soft corners that needed no sanding. a true dixie flap- jack, barnwood juke jive joint in the woods of western new york. a rusted row boat and one oar. we took it out and brought it back. silver fm radio hits and blind loose leaf kits. brooksie and jim bob and kate and carp. it wasn't there for long or was it there at all. doesn't matter much. it was then and then was when it was and that is all it could have been.

ash bucket back wash

2002-01-23T08:48:00.000-05:00

the request was made. the duty will be done. here it is, the canvass, to be filled with broad strokes fueld by bored brain brackets and a forty five minute home stretch. a call to the taxi owner with five minutes to spare. begging with silence and a desperate plea for normal patio furniture replacements. catalogues all askew and plans on hold, the silver in her hair and the soft medallion chair. the package is filled with potential positivity and the sisters of mercy are scheduled to arrive before the drought takes the cake. they have been put on alert. they stand there with their heels all aligned and shined. he used to believe that there was beauty in waiting and wanting. however, they have been bedfellows, now, for much too long. they seem like stubbly chinned monsters glaring through the dim winter blaze of boredom. the druel dripping on his shoes, their breath more potent than the midnight tunnel vandals and the software slobs slumped in the breakroom. it's time for one of those small saviours to make their presence known. it's time now, for them to emerge from the ranks of the breadwinning "troupe de solitaire" and provide subsistance at a moments glance.

post mortal shuffle dance

2002-01-21T08:50:00.000-05:00

standing there on the curb below the red plastic ventilation duct and the small fissure below the brace. he waved at the misinterpreted passing phase. yellow, fast and bustling, it was not what or who he thought. the occupation let him down. the operation turned him around. he was longer than his trenchcoat now. frayed, he swayed. touched the soft white gravel with the butts and the cuts and all the walked on passing lanes. not sure where he heard that sound, past the breakwall toward to pound. the automatic door used to be a novelty, now the warden spends his time backed up against the gift shop breezeway post.

cubical zarconia

2002-01-16T08:51:00.000-05:00

strapped to the edges of the imaginary cubical, he wanders and wonders out loud. noone here around to hear. noone here around to fear. blasting the air horn and waiting for the catholic freaks to drop their gym bags and lift up their shades. getting paid for sitting. getting paid for spitting. getting paid for quitting. playing in the compost pile of machine makers and modern day machismo masters. going to school to become a shoulder campanion and instant assistant top soil replenisher. the glue drips off the edge of the table and lands on the paperclip wedged between the aging linoleum and the folded message regarding the shoe removal policy back in the 80s. filing cabinets store the stories of phone calls, invoices and misplaced check books and miscommunication and drop dates and delivery instructions. the chronological vertical boredom of decades and decades of victims misplaced by reality.

running on and on and on and on and on

2002-01-15T08:53:00.000-05:00

the car was left running on and on and on and on. the motor turned over and over and over and over again. the key was left hanging in the swinging door. backwashed and mint filled, the bride walked over the bridge without a stepladder or a present to present to all her guests. stopped and bewildered, there she stood on the edge of the river. that pierced, whining-necklaced bobble-headed bitch. meaningless and stupid, stooped in the cabinet with the rest of the rejected implements and returned layaway items. nothing meant more to her than the sadness sealed from the modern made maple mad man. none more sorry than her no less. all this while the car rumbled and bucked like a rogue tossed from his 14th century stallion.

small saviors abound

2002-01-14T08:55:00.000-05:00

small saviors stuck in between the shards of the broken butterdish kicked into the corner. small saviors wrapped around the litterbox, sandwich scraps, and rotten potato crisps. small saviors lodged into the back of the colonial nightwatchman's nightmare. small saviors walking in the crowd on the way to the crowd on the way to the line to get in. small saviors scattered amongst the pin prick salesman's desk trinkets and wrappers and invoices. small saviors hanging from the belt of the utility pole technician wannabe on leave from the salestroupe squadron parking practice.

limo ride

2002-01-13T08:59:00.000-05:00

i rode a limousine through a broken dream. sleet past my brain. grain down the drain. half full and bottles empty, stopped the car to break my back. stopped in to see the chicken shack. lost down the straight away with nothing left but the right of way. grabbed a bag of loot, strapped it on, bagged the cab for the second half. chased the choker from jersey way with a frozen fist and sandy clay. broke the woofer and the tweeter. couldn't find nothin sweeter. a limousine through a broken dream.

manifold attachment assessment

2002-01-11T09:01:00.000-05:00

all beaten from the rusted shanks and shackles, his arms lay twisted in the corner behind his belly button pillow face. ragged and torn, the misty muffin little kitchen appliance helper was of no more use to the school children. in their infinite wisdom, they mentioned the loss of the prosthetic poster girl to their crossing guard. mrs. snyder was not her usual self. it's hard to cross all those kids when your knotty little knees won't strangle the torso tension bar like they used to. this will be her last week of work, she mumbled as ronald bragadaccio scurried by. like her last week last month and the month before that. she couldn't wait to watch the final episode on tv. it's the only time she laughed all day but she loves fly fishing and spring is just around the corner.

bullwhip central

2002-01-11T09:00:00.000-05:00

castigated and castrated, the wet marshall walked a quiet mile. chin swinging from side to side he tightened his stride and held the leash a little tighter. visions of swerving cars and cellar doors opening fiercely to the wild wind. a prisoner to surprise and fear. the evening's quietest moment when the dark is consumed by flurry, chaos and then silence.

braggadocio in a minor

2002-01-05T09:04:00.000-05:00

barely visible with clothing on, he wandered through the shop keeper's estate sale. everything from small tahitian bread baskets and window accessories all the way to overstuffed russian hand puppets, whatever. nowhere for him to hide, he decided to buy a saucer and call it a day. bagging all the groceries in his mind, he stopped to test the water. he left it for someone else to fiddle with. over the cracks and past his trusted snack pack retail delivery friend's house. time to call it a day. all the sheep herded into the corral just west of his ad-infinitum arboretum.

cornerstone motif #297

2002-01-03T09:06:00.000-05:00

the writing tablet teaterered.

one way bust fuck

2000-07-14T06:31:00.000-04:00

puddles dripping through the threshold
winter disappearing on the roadway exit ramp
pertinent information blasting on the fun dial
backseat mirror filled with the bearded baseball capped robot boy
passenger side sits the soundman, smiling
flurry of hazed mayhem
driving with ease toward the east as far as we could go
state penitentiary roundabout, camera rolling
cops and cars, watchtower bricks
back on the road past the breakaway fence
meeting the wheelchaired common man on the sidewalk off in the elevator
doors openb to burritos and overpriced salad greens
down in the elavator
up the ramp towards black slacked breasts
beer for brunch and laughs for later
crusing through the record warehouse, piping cool painted ducts
rug muffles the motor and nervous eyes stare at the unfortunate vehicle boy
past the magazines and PG videos back to the street
parking garage bowels, catalyst, forming hilarity
turn the key and the travelers turn weary
memory fading, pavement blends away
and the day is done.

flood victim

2000-07-14T06:27:00.000-04:00

helicopter blades and soggy sawdust
whirling through your brain
it won't go away, the pounding rain.
surveying the damage, everything's wasted
your life down the drain, all cut and pasted.
channel 7 man says 'but there's still hope for the people'
makes a good story i suppose.
flood victim, born to lose
flood victim, no choice to choose
flood victim, born to lose.