1. Sunday, June 20, 2004

    oj and courtney 

    and everyone but you

    this is an audio post - click to play

    i writer everyday

    and ask her to come back

    but i do not send em

    i think about younger girls

    or bigger girls or wilder

    girls arent what im lookin for now

    but you know that

    and its not super, man, thinking about

    all of whatever happened

    that added up to this

    which is me alone at 2am

    suckin on a pen

    thinking of how i write and write and nothings

    you drive through the desert

    and you see two things

    oilrigs pumping and windmills spinning

    motion and no movement

    spirit, no action.

    whirling and whirling

    typing and hopeing and praying

    and thinking

    im gonna die without her

    thinking im so stupid to even be thinking

    everyone gets over theirs

    i got over mines

    whats so damn perfect about this little flatchest grrl

    with her perfect hair and lips

    we’d kiss and cry and lie all night

    slept in so many rooms

    all over california mexico and foreign lands like

    gretna and maui

    whats the good lord got saved for me

    do bums in the street with heaps of dirty clothes used as sheets

    snoozing away in a doorway think about what the lords gonna bring em

    and who am i to ask when theyve got real dreams

    i just want my little girl.

    clouds pass by overhead silent in the nightsky

    theyre going to where clouds die

    and theyve seen her why dont they tell me hows it really.

    the rain, it rains, and it pours on a little pink girls bike

    half falling down no kickstand

    im damned why wont he say it

    in a holding cell not hell but close someone in the cloud has a rope

    but theyre scared id use it the cheater way and youd see dangling converses

    in the morning with milk but i got better plans dear fans

    i just want my little girl.

    and they bowl as the rain pours tears from sobbing saints twentyfour hours it flashes

    semis blow past spray mud on the corn and i wish sometimes i wasnt born

    you dont need me what role am i bukowski kicks the shit outta this guy

    dont fuck good anymore and i cant hit a curve

    i teach fools how to sell im the king of the nerds

    so whys he got me breathing still aint i paid all my bills

    maybe thats it.

    shit.

    i still want my little girl.

    bunnie + zulieka + listen missy