Crayon 1980
In 1980, when I was but nineteen years young, my father took issue with a certain idleness I possessed and bequeathed unto me a piece of paper folded into seven tiny bits. Those bits contained a telephone problem with multiple digits—digits of numbers, not fingers—to be called at the honey mustering of my courage. Numbers directing me to a Songwriter’s Something-er-other to be had at a Moorish Recording Studio settled beside a smoking soup kitchen. So it was, from that tiny paper—with my best singing partner from the 12th grade: one Godfree Godsend— that a number was called and history forever disrupted.


I never cried though I sure as hell tried

And the silence made quite a commotion.

As I was weak, I attempted to speak

Without showing the slightest emotion.

Though daylight tore through my secret and made me tell

I’m still slumbering under the same old spell

Where I look well—

But I’m broken ain’t I?


Broken ain’t I now.

Broken down by the elements

By the hammering hurt that is rage in a snow white storm.

Never mind anonymity

I reluctantly see that’s me I must save myself from.

After dessert, as I spit out the hurt

That I came to confuse with affection.

I’ll be apart from my head to my heart 

When I mercifully cut the connection.

Asleep still hovering horrible half in life

I swear over and over in the is dark night

That I’m all right—

But I’m broken ain’t I?


Broken ain’t I now.