Johns aren't Joes

In the mirror you're one of a kind

An ace of spades

Silence the deck when it whispers

Speaking in tongues

Inquire first with the joker

You are a bouquet

But you see a flower

And so the gardener plucks

The wolf's season is over

Hold his breath a little longer

Just another wolf

Just another meal

Mouths remain red

At a table set for a TV dinner

This is breathing, second nature

So many before

Too many after

RIP dreams

Guilty eyes

RIP heart

Never see you

RIP beauty

It's the mundane that drove

And let us out

to view dreams, heart, beauty

love isn't found with torn seems

or dangling from teeth like a cigarette

american dream

american spirit

american nightmare

The wolf's season is over

Hold his breath a little longer

Hold it for him, and it will all be over

We’ll meet in the sunset

And flee to the sunrise

f#m

The shape of these four fingers
takes me there, to the beach house
by the sand and green waters.

Cool cement floors under bare foot
sweat and questions
a piano untuned by the hearth.

This shape has been
many other moments, but
this is the one that rises up

Like green weeds covering
the still waters of Lake Winona.