What is with the lights
The flashing down the street
What the hell
On a Saturday night
Is that where we were supposed to stay
I hope everyone is OK
The world move a little slower that night in LA
What a night
What a morning
In the morning
We should get going
At Hanks Bistro
In South LA
It’s a quiet Saturday night
Under neon light
On the corner
Waiting for customers
To linger in and inquire
For food and spirits
But for now it a quiet night
In South LA
I’m thankful for the beans
I’m thankful for the brew
Most of all
I am thankful for the time
Here with you
Malls
What will become of these ancient beasts
As the tides of merchandising physically
Eternally decrease
What will happen to the giant escalators
The buildings will be filled with vacancies
Then what are we left with
A skeleton of what was
Hieroglyphics to be studied about our culture
Pulled apart like the bones of a unlucky prey
Beneath the vulture
What will become of these voids
As our time will be filled up with droids
Clouds in the sky raining on empty buildings
It will not come soon
For some maybe not soon enough
What will happen when tastes and preferences move on
The malls are going to get ditched
Pretty rough
Sweet of me
Coffee on a Friday night
Slow motion
Next to the Atlantic Ocean
Our bed is a revolving door
Ask me tonight and I will be unsure
Of where I will sleep tomorrow
But tonight I drink you in sweet
In a cafe
Near the Abbott Kinney street
Oh what questionable distractions
Attractive as first glance
Quaint and uneasy
Under examined
The sun
The sky
The moon lit nights
Palm trees
Oh the goodness of distraction
The fruitfulness of sanity
Returned from a distant place
Now and again
My distracted zen
I’ve got Google problems
The search engine is number one
One and done
From the top of the tabloids
Now completely undone
Trying to find a home
Amidst the lonely internet roam
Roaming the wires of the pages
Behind the sanskrit and the weary
Continuing through ethernets so dreary
I have a google problems
But I am not trying to solve them
Honestly
I am not sure there is much honesty
Left
To the right of a circus
To the left we are certain
What are we in the middle
Just these regular people
There is little left that can give
Hope or energy
Homeland Security or Department of Energy
It becomes one big blur on a fuzzy TV
The sum of two people is now the we
From our perspective this gerrymandering is nothing
Fun to see
Absolutely
Ridiculously
Brash and unheard
I plead the third
But no combination of words can equal
Such great show buisness
As the one before or the sequel
Chasing the gold
From the hands of the clowns
From the tops of the trees
To the streets of the local town
Why chase the lies
Let’s chase the truth
The truth
Hanging on low trees
The trees we can all reach from our knees
Let’s all start there
A soapy sky
Filled with bubbles
Falling all over our heads
Dust embroiled with steam
Dirts downstream
Is there a way to filter the air
With giant cotton towels
Air filters deconstructed paper towels
Can we pull out the weeds and scrub the sky
Like giant wind turbines reducing the pollution
It is a weak gesture
But a possible solution
A soapy sky calls us back
And we force it to voicemail
A Cup of Songwriting 