Lincoln's Eyes

By the second verse, dear friends, my head will burst and my life will end, so I'd like to start this one off by saying "live! and love!"

I was young and at home in bed, hanging on the words some poem said in '31; I was impressionable. I was upsettable. I tried to make my breathing stop or my heart beat slow, so when my mom and John came in I would be cold.

From a bridge on Washington Avenue, the year of 1972 broke my bones and skull, and it was memorable. It was half a second in; I was half-way down - do you think I wanted to turn back around and teach a class where you kiss the ass that I've exposed to you? And at the funeral, the University cried at three poems they'd present in place of a broken me.

I was breaking in a case of suds at the Brass Rail, a fall-down drunk with his tongue torn out and his balls removed. And I knew that my last lines were gone, while, stupidly, I lingered on. Oh, but wise men know when it's time to go, and so I should too. And so I fly into the brightest winter sun of this frozen town. I'm stripped down to move on, my friends: I'm gone.

I hear my father fall, and I hear my mother call, and I hear the others all whispering, come home. I'm sorry to go. I loved you all so, but this is the worst trip I've ever been on.

So hoist up the John B. sail. See how the main sail sets. I'm full in my heart and my head and I want to go home, with a book in each hand, in the way I had planned. I feel so broke up, I want to go home.

i am not the most stable of people presently.

You didn't have to say that I'm no good, 'cause I know.
There's no point pointing pistols at me now, I'll just go.
I never should have asked you to be kind, but I'm slow.

I'm sorry, but how can I get to you
Stuck in my fifty-pound lead boots,
Stuck in my deep sea diving suit?

I never thought you'd turn on me, 'cause you're my best friend.
You say I never offered you a thing in the end.
And now you wouldn't trust me with a grain of sand.

I'm sorry, but how can I get to you
Stuck in my fifty-pound lead boots,
Stuck in my deep sea diving suit?

Come back from San Francisco.
It can't be all that pretty,
when all of New York City misses you.
Should pretty boys in discos distract you from your novel,
remember I'm awful in love with you.

Come back from San Francisco and kiss me; I've quit smoking.
I miss doing the wild thing with you.
Will you stay? I don't think so,
but all I do is worry, pack bags, call cabs, and hurry home to me.