<Golden Boy>
vulgar haggle smothers expression. cover the casket on your own mind 6 feet under but relinquish your anger to the unabashed freedoms of my "mindless chatter".

<Frank Buck>
mindless chatter is as mindless chatter does.
this, you see, is about waiting--
t he sky turns dark, goes to night, turns light
again, and I'm still waiting.

i had a dream about my own funeral. people cried,
and people laughed, and
my father wore a dark suit-- the same suit he would
have worn to my wedding,
if I'd had one.

A big-boned woman carried me to my grave, and there was no casket--
only thick, wet, crumbly, mud-colored dirt.
It was drizzling a bit. mud on mud until my body was buried.

this, you see, is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist into your hair,
blurring your vision,
until you think you see your own funeral
transpiring in front of you--
and it is earthy,
you are of mud and to mud you shall return
the thick sludge of earth.

so do what you must-- mindless chatter
or visions of when
you'll taste fine wines of a better day
but please,
forget me when I die.

<Golden Boy>
The pendulum rocks back and forth, like the unsteady legs of troubled anticipation. Sun-soaked wood clothes father time as he delivers your frail eulogy. His tainted lyric stands awkward among the colored passions of your yesteryears. The pensioned choir woman dressed in hews of putrid pink spills out of tune and questions the pale riddle of your unspent life. Why did he wait for love that never came? Better to drink the fruits of squandered decadence than to drown in the pool of self-conditioned pity.