I am from dirt, earth, leaves of grass
The land of Nod, East of Eden, far away
The epicenter of irreverence, central New Jersey
Insipid insanity, indignation all around

I am from Bob Dylan’s cigarettes and Springsteen’s guitar
Born to Run as Hard Rains Fall on Thunder Road
From the soul of the road scholar to my withered lips
To the unspoken pulpit and the dead preacher’s ear

I am from Wilde’s wild wit and Kurt Cobain’s throat
The smell of teen spirit with whiskey soaked despair
And from Hemingway’s bottle, his boozable feast
And from trees breathing heavy the fresh false - spring rain air




I am everything and nothing and something at best
Slivers of cynicists stitched all into one
Searching, screaming for some sort of meaning, cause or call,
In the end I know what I am, and what we are

We are finite fickle things, preludes to eulogies
We all fall for tomorrow to take our place
The true goal, what I, you, all aspire to
Is that our lives are lived well, and remembered past our days