Confessions of an Old Punk. Poets sling words, Painters sling color, Singers sling sounds, Prophets are silent, But listen—I sit and Take it all in like a Pizza, Waiting for my ride home.
"Know Where" I look at my life for a way out Of the confusion, the doubts The fear, the stupidness, anxiety And the comedy of breaking news. No where do I find an answer. I am feeding squirrels in the park. He takes my peanut, looks up, His eyes say , “Know where.” I realized that he “knows” And I am still looking For my peanut.