Who Am I?

Red hair
blue eyes,
I share
I can cry,
I'm left handed.

I write
that's right,
but I ain't a poet.
Bet you didn't know it,
but I'm white.

I'm Catholic,
deal with it,
I'm Christian,
I'll always lend a hand,
ain't that nice.

I read,
I lead,
I do not follow,
that I do not allow,
deal with it.

I sing,
I have my own wings,
you may despise my voice,
but you have a choice,
these are my back pages.

I have many friends,
there is a surprise 'round the bend,
new friends, new enemies,
I'll always be free,
criticize me all you want.

I watch the Sun set,
I watch the Sun rise,
I do not bet,
I don't compromise,
what you think about that?

Yeah, I dress funny,
ok, I don't have all the money,
but what I do have is love,
and I pray to God above
and He'll be on my side if I'm on His.

Here I am,
lend me your hand,
and I'll never let you down,
even if hell comes around,
you'll still have a shoulder to lean on.

I like to meet
new people, new feats,
so open up,
I won't interrupt,
I love you. . .


Pointlessly wandering around, looking up at the ground, looking down into the stars. I walk blindly with no direction home, I don't look back. I walk aimlessly with full direction, but I don't know where to. I look like me, I don't look like he, or she, or them, or it. I'm going to Cannery Row, and Desolation Row, right off of Highway 61, on the road, I see that these visions of Johanna, are now all that remain. I hope I'm not normal. If you want to be normal, then screw you. Music is true, truth is not music. Psychic homes move on four legs and ride on clouds of cowboys and float through the sands of death. We'll be together through life, if only, tomorrow wasn't such a long time. Infinity is ending yesterday, tomorrow is today yesterday. Guitar picks are used for guitars, reeds are used for free reed instruments. Is there anybody out THERE? Is there anybody out THERE? Is there anybody OUT THERE? I'm selling postcards of the hanging, I'm strapping the heart-attack machine across your chest. My insurance men are bringing down the kerosine, from the castles from up above. I hope you can see through the wall you put around me, because I'm no superfaggot. Sea nymphs swim from the opposite loft to the stars right off of Highway 51. Astral weeks pour from trash can lids and run into the mystic milk. Your hollow face and ghostlike soul follow me around in my "lucid" dreams. You're following me around like an angry gangster. Oak and palm trees bent- over-back-wards from a hurr-icane breeze. "I accept Chaos, I am not sure wether or not if it accepts me." "The only people for me are the mad ones. . ." What is the persistence of YOUR memory? Mine is not to float, like the Man In The Long Black Coat. . .