Listen to poem:
Proof In Living and Carnations
What's found at the crack of an egg
wonderin if I have somethin', anything
left to say..
bright yolk or young generations hope..
open your mind, try if you can
whether breakfast or prayer for man.
Y'know I go to visit the lonely in their lonesome lands..
sit a spell, hold their hands.
Visit with Bukowski, well of course I would.
A lit cigarette held in shears..
expertly placed beween the spring and the pivot point,
tryin' to learn the meaning of the word poet.
We're all stuck like swirling smoke
between the spring and the dull edge,
hoping for shear ecstasy in cut rapture
like passing of the last carnation (flower for Mariupol).
Searching for myself in spoken word
just may've found it..
In verse of Cohen's Hallelujah, brought to
life in an age of Buckley, an age of genius
and beauty.., tho'
perhaps a little short-lived..
proof there's so much more we can give.
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