You said that these weekends are like an arrow through a scabbing heart It bleeds and it heals it bleeds and it heals You said it's just not cutting it, but the summer will end and these weekends will be all we have left I guess that's just not cutting it, when it's just cutting skin You said when we met I was as white as snow But I guess I've just been laying in the dirt too long You said with him you're always on cloud nine With me it was always raining You said you wanted to grow old together But I guess I've been aging too fast for you Well soon, I'll be dead And you won't have to put up with me anymore

Well my mother has a statuette of Joseph sitting on a shelf in our kitchen And she says that he protects our family and watches with everything do But he doesn't know about the books that she's been having to read so she can learn how to deal her troubled teenager And he doesn't have a clue about what I've been doing upstairs in the bathroom And down at the beach with all of the fuck ups where we're always dancing, all night and all year round until the polluted water from the bay freezes up in the sands and we pass out on picnic tables and we stare into the sky and we see blackness we see nothing we see ourselves we see nothing in ourselves And old lover, I'm sorry to say that I've forgotten your name But do you remember the day you said these words "It's okay to be nothing as long as you know it" We were slow dancing in my kitchen to Procul Harum Our socks were gliding on the hardwood floor My eyes were staring down at them as your words fell to my ears from your mouth "It's okay to be as long as you know it" Well, I'm not sure if I believe, but it's all that I have to live by So I'm writing a note to my mother and slipping it between the pages of one of those books that I made her buy I'm going to say that I'll try to be alright

When I am at home: i take the name given to me by my parents four weeks before I was born; that of ST GREGORY, patron saint of singers and teachers. When I am on the road, me and my friends we are all bandanas and suspenders. Yelps and growls. Torn knee-holes covered up by terrible band t-shirts given to us by locals the day before. During those times, during the road times, you can call me FIVAL but i am often asked why there's a feather in my hat and I reply, "it invites conversations from friendly strangers who lack tact" Intentions are usually good and hearts are backed by a willingness to participate in samaritan acts. Its a simple thing, this wing leads to free meals and strings of events which essentially allows me to sing, At this point, I am a proffesional houseguest. I have a degree in what time is the right time to leave if you cook, I'll clean. Iv got the evological footprint of an ant three thousand times smaller than its queen, but Im lieing. What I am really trying to say is, you will hardly even notice me. If this poem is boring you, I should let you know that songs about touring through states often assimilates fate through images of crosses and crossroads, with the mere idea that both act more like terrorists the more south you go. But make no mistake! I dont claim that every citzen of texas, arizona, or riots from penn state wants to assign crimes to my name just because I'm gay. I know there are bad apples that fall from the trees, but its the seeds that are sown that shine underneath, thats what I beleive in. Thats the reason that I sing. This is not a self validating poem that I wrote for me, instead: its a song I wrote about everything I can do to validate you

To the Poet who gets in touch with me, once every three months, having no idea who I am and asks me for a three thousand dollar speaking gig. Dear Poet: I do not hate you, but instead, I set the bar at which I respect you so that you know who you are when I look at you. I do not consent to being your family. Yeah we might both write words that feed our bellies and the bellies of others when they are hungry for some peace of mind, and we might both travel the winding roads from time to time, but we are not family. I have been nothing more than a book sold to you, and now, when you realize there are many more pages to my volumes, I am nothing more than what you see as a key to the forbidden fruit of universities and the gold they keep chained away in their lockers, in their banks, in their basements. You see me as a way to trick the kids into wasting their semesters away pining for you to come and teach them, cause to the unlearned any teachings are worth paying for, to the young if you desguise yourself as a star you can burn so brightly right in front of their eyes they cant help but stare into your sun, agape at what you have lived: cause they have no idea that simply by living they will learn what you have to teach them. Dont get me wrong: Everyone deserves to make a living, but there is a trickery to your art. Of selling yourself the superstar nova, surrounded by six string quartets and string section sililoqeys, but I can see the press kit you put together: every poem sounds like an epiphany when you put a slow cello behind it. Have it play in A major, thats the most uplifting. Speak like an angel, we have all been taught from birth to eat the words of angels like the saviors last supper and then you, you can be a savior too. I would rather hear your words read, not by your voice but from someone not privileged enough to have one. Because you are NOT my family. I respect you, and you are good, but you are not 5 grand good. Or you are 5 grand good, but not anymore than I am 5 grand good, or the young lady on the open mic is 5 grand good, or the overlooked reader in the slam is 5 grand good, or the organizer is 5 grand good. Because as much as I would love to pay you a million dollars for your art, that economy does not currently exist. And while you and the rest of your heavenly host are floating around the country dealing out your truths like golden apples on trees, the rest of us? We are breaking our backs bending over backwards to arrange the yellow brick road for you. So your solar flare can pass through our cool night breeze and teach us what its like to be warm, but you know what, I would rather be the moon. Not shining but reflecting light and letting others see just how far a shadow they can cast, when you dim all the lamps just right, EVERYONE IS HUGE! We all have a reach of giants and meld into one another, learning from one another. Family is not something you call someone you want something from. Family is someone who already gave it to you.

I get to your house a full five minutes early, and swing around to the front window to whisper a "hello". Instead, I catch a glimpse of you. Placing a binder around your chest but I don't see a disguise. I see futuristic space armor worn by the galactic football league or by every single character in starship troopers, expecially the tall blonde one, the one all the other guys obviously wanna do. And when we are alone, and intimate, and there are places our hands cannot go because they are unsure of how we will feel when we get there. I say its ok, its like we are the X-men. and when cyclops and jean grey do it, he cant take his sunglasses off because laser eye beams will go everywhere, and kill everyone, and definatly ruin the mood. And when you tell me you wish we had waited another 6 months to start dating so you would be further along in your transition: I say its ok. Its just good practice for learning to love who you are as well as who you are going to become. AND its like your a pokemon and I get to see all of your pokemon evolutions as you go along. And when we walk down the street, hand in hand and some bro douchebag yells "faggot" out of a car: I like to think both of us will smile because they know who we really are.

I found Isa way up the river he took my shoes and he cooked my dinner he's the one who always knows best Jesus got caught in a honey comb and now I feel oh so alone where is my lord he's in the shower washing off all the scars from his palms you just keep on walking and I think that I have done something wrong I found Isa way up the river he hates his friends but he told me I was different he's the one who always knows best and I got caught here way back home and now I feel oh so alone where is my lord he's in the shower washing off all the scars from his palms you just keep on walking and I know that I have done something wrong

I want the roads to rise to meet You I want You to scrape death off your boots I wanna love You in September and call it an Autumn truth and I do not like Your step father of the way that he talks to You and when I think of You yeah when I close my eyes You are wearing something blue because You-o-o-o-o-o know what I are yeah You-o-o-o-o-o know what I are and I am sorry about your brother but I am happy you were brave and I promise I am trying not to be another person you have to save and I will sing your praises for all that art you made and I am trying really hard to see you today because You-o-o-o-o-o know what I are yeah You-o-o-o-o-o know what I are and I have dreams of falling asleep in Your car if only things could stay the way they are