Head Hole (Song)...

(Video Link ~ Tempo & Rhythm here.)

I pushed a guy on Sunday;

He shot me on a Monday.

You want to learn humility?

Well Fu´ck baby, that's one way.

                                 So now I'm just a ghost,

                                   Watching-the world go to shit.

                                 And I wish—oh, I wish—

                              Someone would ask what-I-think of it.

… this-is what I'd say … This, what I'd say:

                              Bring in the bigots, call in the racists;

                                 I want to bleed on all their proud, cocky faces:

                                  Look down on (any) life, you're better off dead...

                                    I should know:

                                   I've got a hole in the back of my head

(bla-la-LA!!!)

                               Draw in the bullies, entice the brawlers,

                                The pledgers, the cliques, and the fucking cat-callers:

                                 Treat lives like meat, then it's fair when you're bled...

                                  I should know:

                                 I've got a hole in the back of my head

(bla-la-LA!!!)

         [instrumental / arbitrary shout break]

I pushed a guy: I said his wife

Was uglier than mine; that he was

Dumb, poor, lazy, weak, and just

Less human. Less refined.

So he shot me in my fucking face;

I didn't think he'd do it. And

I'd never seen my bloated soul,

'Til-he put a hole right through it.

       … {build} … {build}

                            Roll up your kindness, make it a lever;

                              Do something, true, loving, thought-sparking, clever:

                                Fuck being a preacher; be a neighbor instead...

                               You talk down?

                             You'll meet the ground with a hole in your head

(bla-la-LA!!!)

                                 I'm sick of hatred. Judging and blaming.

                             Left-right, godless-faithful, all them point fingers blaming.

                          When you can't see or hear another? 'Nough said...

                      Your mind's gone:

              So says the guy with the hole in his head

(pop-pop-pop)

In the Soup...

Once we realize enough dividing makes connection—

That, in a “Split-Pea Soup,” every 'pea' is 'the Pea'—

Then our own words, like webs, start popping loose from corners

And wrap-rolling into tight balls:

                 I-corner—

                                    —You-corner

         {Crumple-crumple}

                      We.

                                                                                 “I want to kill you,”

                      equals “...wish that I would die,”

          means “...just want to start fresh

                                 and open wide like evening sky.”

                                                                                            “You're a bad person,”

                      equals “...I know that inner feeling,”

          means “...I'm running from a piece in

                                 me that I'd feel shame revealing.”

                                                                                “They're a bunch of fools,”

                      equals “I don't know how to merge us,”

          means “I sense that we're the same at

                                 roots but I'm stuck here at the surface.”

Once we realize enough dividing makes connection—

Everything we covet or judge the most is our reflection.

Also...

That piece of skin (

hanging off my shin)

That the brick wall sheared away

Wags like a fatty gray sail.

I lift it high, translucent pale,

Rip it clean, and end its sway.

But I worry about the deep white layer,

So I massage all 'round its boundaries

Until that hole fills red with care

And down my leg, in abundance, bleeds.

I look at the brick,

Skin and hair on its lip,

And wipe so the neighboring youths

Won't find that gore before a few other truths—

(they're too fresh yet to begin

mapping lessons from scars 'cross their skin;

too brief to look past vicious

and see that losses make

              here-things precious;

too new to feel humble,

kneeling by a wall

        that will also crumble).

Addictions & Attachments...

When I was a rat—

                 White fur, red eyes—

                                 I used to press a lever

                               And pretend that was my love.

                                              But really, that addiction

                                                 Was a substitute, a fill-in

                                                             For a pair of hands

                                                    That came for me, Above.

                                                 They were warm, and whispered,

                                                                   “I am sorry; this will pass.”

                                                                   I was 

                                                                             high at the time, 

                                                                                                      though,

                                                                   So I don't 

                                                           remember much:

                                        Just the softness of her breath

                    As she held me in that moment;

      Just the peace I felt there,

Nestled in her touch.

Perfection is a Pointless Canvas...

             His impeccable desk had a uniform shine.

But the window had a crack that everyone saw.

“Why don’t you fix that, John; the rest is

So perfect?” 

                            “Oh, the window? Ha!

   Look down. Did you spot how clean

The shoe cart and the tile flooring is?”

“Yes.” 

                 “Did you smell orange-oil,

And feel your chair's dust-free skin?”

“I did.” 

                  “So you also scanned my

      close-shaven face? My oiled hair?

    with all its ordered strands in place—”

“John! It’s a nice room, and you're very well-kept.

                   All of it, but that crack.”

“Well, for years I kept this room

Perfect. Not one speck, one flaw.

And business came, and business

                Went; nobody really saw.

           Then I punched the quiet glass.

        It chirped and split. 

Once people saw that vein,

    Like an angry bolt though invisible clear,

       swallowing the blankness across that pane,

               Only then, they looked for a pattern of flaws.

                    And noticed... straight lines and polish instead.

                        And then—only then—did my clients and friends

                               give the window their pity and the rest their applause.”