When I went down—when I went down— when I went down, just to see how my lady lay, she was sittin’ right there, by that that same gray stone (just where I left her yesterday). When I laid down—when I laid down— when I laid me down, in the daisies where my lady lay, she said, "get off o' my garden, you sad, old man. Get on out. Don’t come back, 'til you got somethin’ useful to say." When I wept down—when I wept down— when I wept down’ my lady, to ask her what did she say, she just pointed a daisy at yonder gate, with a look like a stone, till I picked up and walk’ away. When she went down—when she went down— when Daisy went down, she was down like a dyin’ day. When Daisy went down, she was askin’ for me, sayin’, "play me my song, boy; don’t stop 'til I’m gone’ my way." She said, "when I go down—when I go down— when I go down, I want t’ hear my name in tone of A. When I go down, don’t let me catch you in tears. Just play me my song, boy, and lay daisies down on my clay." When I go down—when I go down— when I lay me down, lay me down where my lady lay. Carve, “Daisy May’s man,” above the days on my stone. Leave a space, just in case I find somethin’ else useful to say.

Mornin', cold mornin', sweep the street. The maple leaves are rustlin' around my feet. It's a far, far whistle from home for me. Shove along, a-shufflin' down the street. Stranger, no stranger to these blocks-- I've often left them, 'long the walk, and the people. Oh, the people, how they love to talk! Keep my head down, a-headin' down to the postman's box. I'm grateful for the gray skies to dull the shame. Faithless in the Midwest, you've got to pray for rain. Teachers and preachers from my childhood days, always with their questions, their hands a-raised, sayin', "Mornin'! Good Mornin'! We've all got our praise to pay!" Humbled and a-mumblin', I fade away. I'm grateful for the gray skies to call the game. Faithless in the Midwest, you've got to pray for rain.

I tried and I tried to get God on my side, but he never did like the way I roll. Lord, he knows I get down with the clown, every now'n'then. His laughter is good to my soul. I grew up in the choir, singin' psalms to inspire God's lost children and make them feel fine. I drank blood from a chalice, in God's shinin' palace, but now I crave somethin' stronger than wine. I tried and I tried to get God on my side, but he never did like the way I roll. Lord, he knows I get down with the clown, every now'n'then. His laughter is good to my soul. So, I traded my lyre for a harp of desire. My heart is empty, but my glass is half full. I need brimstone and fire, for these old men in the mire, to make my heartbreakin', hard rock'n'roll. I tried to get right and I cried trough the night. I even lied to get beside that dude. But, he knows how it is. Lord, he knows I'm addicted to that old fashioned, sweet passion fruit. I tried and I tried to get God on my side, but he never did like the way I roll. Lord, he knows I get down with the clown, every now'n'then. I'm gon' have to save my own damned soul.

Oh, but I never kissed you, my little girl blue; just spent my nights drawin' and thinkin' 'bout you. Then, after high school, I had to leave town to sing for the swallows and sleep on the ground. I remember you well, at your lemonade stand, how the cool water dripped on your little, pink hands; and how no one was buyin', but me and your mom, so you drank it yourself, 'til the streetlights came on. Then, several years later, when the streetlights came on, how we crept to the creek with a ball jar of rum and a fistful of squares that you stole from your mom and they curled up in rings on the tip of your tongue. Oh, but I never kissed you, my little girl blue; just spent my nights drawin' and thinkin' 'bout you. Then, after high school, I had to leave town to sing for the swallows and sleep on the ground. I guess I'll never know, if you think of me still, how we used to sneak out and get high on the hill; and how I tried to teach you the words to my song, just to watch the notes dance on the tip of your tongue. I suppose you've grown older and hardened your hands. You've forgotten my songs and your lemonade stand. I imagine you're married, with kids of your own, whose lemonade tastes like the day I left home. Oh, but I never kissed you, my little girl blue; just spent my nights drawin' and thinkin' 'bout you. Then, after high school, I had to leave town to sing for the swallows and sleep on the ground.

One day, I'll spy you in a churchyard, with a blush on your face and say, "I'll be your first rebellion, if you'll be my savin' grace;" and you'll say, "I don't really know you, but I'm tired o' bein' so good." We'll steal a picnic baket and sneak off into the woods. You can be my buddin' rose, if I can be your hookin' thorn. We'll run off to Indiana to go dancin' in the corn. We'll run off to Indiana to go dancin' in the corn, wearin' nothin', but the clothes that we've had on since we was born. O' course, eventually, we'll tire and I'll collapse into your arms. I'll be pleased with my surroundings and decide to buy the farm. I'll sing the swan song of our love, as I go spiralin' to the heck, leave my body in the cornfield with its arms around your neck, and go down gladly to the devil, knowin' you'll be up in heaven, soon, where roses don't have thorns in their sides, anymore. You can be my buddin' rose, if I can be your hookin' thorn. We'll run off to Indiana to go dancin' in the corn.

Locked in your bedroom and lookin’ right up at you shakin’ your hair in the ceilin’ lamp, wearing your florescent halo, like a sunwatchin’ heelstone. I’m head under heel, as you're foldin' me into your dawn. O, Repunzel, throw down your hair like a bible cord pinned between velveteen covers. I’m bendin’ your spine and your body is good like the book that he read to us, Sundays ago. Don’t worry Mary. We don’t have to marry like Mary & Joseph. I’d rather be Sisyphus, carryin’ on with you, rollin’ around with you, turnin’ you over, and tumblin’ under your weight—Ariadne, opening passages, I won’t abandon you there on the island. I’ll wake up beside you. We’ll dance like Bacchantes and pipe-playin’ goatmen. I’ll move with you, singing, "Eohoe!" Mary, I’m no messiah, but I won’t be burning the scroll of your memory. You will be there with me up on the summit and I won’t be crucified, leaving you nothing, but bread and wine.

['Round my Indiana homestead, wave the cornfields. / In the distance, loom the woodlands deep and cool. / Oftentimes, my thoughts return to scenes from schildhood: / out climbin' trees and dancin' like a fool. / But still, there's one thing from the picture missin'. / Without her face, it seems so incomplete. / How I long to see my mother in the doorway, / sayin' don't forget to wash your hands and wipe those feet.] I’m old enough to see her ghosts a-walking, like strains of jazz, through arboretum haze. Every rose wears a sleeve of thorn, but this bud knows where he was born; in a redwood house his mother’s daddy raised. The time has come to make this rose my home. I’ve memories enough to hold me here: my mother’s garden, my father’s grave, the wood where young boys misbehave. This Richmond, Indiana holds me here. The railroad bridge, behind the Spring Grove Heights; she’s the backbone of the deep Whitewater Gorge. I used to step between her ties and scale the gorge with wand’ry eyes, looking for the path next noon to forge. Falls Thistlewaite, I skinny-dipped below you, with lovers, when my love was still sincere. The mill is gone now, miller too, whose gristle cut your heart in two. Falls Thistlewaite, your heartache holds me here. I never thought this day would come to pass. I never dreamed I’d hold you for my own. I left your arms for Ithaca, for Salem, where the seagulls caw. I’ve always dreamed, but Richmond is my home. I’ll always hold her roses dear, my own.

I just can’t sleep tonight, the rain like fingers tappin’ on the panes; so I’m just going to close my eyes and wait. Born in 1983 My body is outliving me My mother has a wedding gown In the closet where his things are found We wish that he was still around Flashes echo home Photograph of a little boy His sorrow sleeping, unemployed Near the broken mustang car A baseball dropped in the backyard I slept against the bypass scar One day I’ll have my own Lazy locks of baby blonde A tail and a magic wand Pajamas like my favorite team Red pinstripe with a busted seam That settled life: a coastal dream Deaf to the building storm The flashes come to those who blink. Hard fingers smelled of printers’ ink Hairy arms and a real embrace, Silv’ry hair and graying face Ma took me to the neighbors’ place Bathwater running warm