For Jenn Hyperactive, or welded Hard as ice, those tiny Nervous twitches ended Times that were mostly good. A subtle quantity That changes like the smell Of rain on stone, and only Rarely leaves us well. And so you turned to drugs Without a book to guide you, Reading urges shot through Your stringy nerves and blood, And to take another user To your bed, this ink addict So surely is a loser To be lost so quick. But numb fingers slip, So easy to fall through, But sure apon the instrument, They hit each line so true. Matthew Spong 91

Kite Fly your coat like a kite in the road, Wings spread out in the smoke. The wheel on the card is not to be feared, On the wheel you are only a spoke. There's a charge for these dangerous days, my friend, And we pay it alive and dead. There's no reckoning, only oblivion, In the box when the flames are fed. Well the smoke smells just like smoke does And it never ascends very high, But gets blown out to sea or caught in the trees When it's still and the weather is dry. The cold wind shills if you have no coat And its blowing will drive you insane But the chill will never last as long As the silence we come to again.