Posts Tagged ‘Geoff’

Too Many Puppies

Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

there’s too many puppies and not enough drugs.
to give thanks to the Lord and those Primus thugs.
yo, I walk into Vons, drink the eight in the john,
slap five to the posse, see what’s going on.
my man Geoff Stearns got the afro from hell
and we’re bringin’ more juice to your show and tell.
sometimes I’m saying somethin’ sometimes nothin’ at all
but I walk around the room clockin’ girls on the wall.
you say you got a problem let the posse take care of it.
you talkin’ some shit? I put some rise in yo lip.
I wax you and milk you like my name was Ad Rock
but I know you like my style, boy, I am nothin’ to mock, yeah.

get off of my tip so I can hit off the gree
I’m supplied by Son of Chonbo, you can say Mr. Bean.
I get a likkle sauced and I call you funny names
but my fist and my foot prevents any silly games.
my boy Alex Kohrt with the VW bus
plays git like a fit and gives you somethin’ to cuss.
call him Galstephus, he casts the charm on the women,
getcha back to the crib there’ll be Cheeze Whiz™ and sinnin’.
and when I stop talking you beggin’ Michael oh please!
because I got more incentive than UC got fees,
I’ve got more jingle than the janitor’s keys
and on my jock, I’ve got too many puppies, yeah.

some say I’m self-destructive ‘cause I cut on my wrists
but you’d grub the X-acto if you knew what I missed.
so I grab the microphone and I give it my all
and with mortar and trowel I put my Brick in the Wall.
then I grab a little sample from the music I groove
and with the bass in your face I make your ass move.
I give it up to my friends ‘cause they know who they are
and you’ll find me drinking heavy cold slumped at the bar, y’all.

D’yer Maker

Posted: February 20, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

sitting around with my head in my hands
I’m berating myself about my childish demands.
how you’re not here and somewhere else is your home
and like Macauley Culkin, I’m home alone.
I don’t know what it is I can’t figure it out
I keep falling in love but don’t know what it’s about
I’ve got some money I want to spend on you
but all I do is go and play myself some Street Fighter II.
I’m not saying that you don’t love me anymore
because charades is for bores and you’ve heard it before,
but I’m feeling low that you’ve gone and left me here
with nothing to do but take care of this beer.
Jimmy Page is the rage in my sorrow;
if my name was Annie, the sun would come out tomorrow,
but I’m going through withdrawl – I’m not holding you tight
and I’m letting Robert Plant sing me to sleep tonight.

Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to
Oh oh oh oh oh oh…you don’t have to go….

I slump real low into the depths of my chair.
I’ve almost convinced myself that I don’t care.
I’m almost conviced that I hate my honey ‘cause
[life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money] – Ice Cube
but I can’t think I know I miss the girl
and drugs and booze are what’s left of my world.
bleary eyes staring at my pictures of her
and I sink a little farther in my furniture.
the floor is littered with the casualty cans –
I’m drinkin’ two-fisted – that means with both hands.
the radio is on, the recors is spinning
and I’m as drunk as a skunk, that’s why I’m grinning.
Cory looks glum, and Geoff’s feeling low
because we’re single, good lookin’ and no women will show.
So we’re off to D.P. to find some young company
a new friend or two who might just listen to me.
maybe they’ll share with me, maybe they’ll lair with me
but hopefully later, they’ll kindly take care of me,
but what I’d much much much much rather do
is stay here tonight and spend some time with you.


alright yes I know that I’m a sorry sight.
I’m as soggy as a bathmat and as high as a kite
but I don’t know what to do or how much more I can take
because being with you is better than birthday cake.
maybe it’s a love song and maybe it’s not
but it sure sounds sincere said with so much pot.
I want you, I need you, I love you, I plead you,
that if you were a garden, I’d hoe you and weed you.
drunk as I am, it’s good to have friends
and all of my friends have got money to spend.
now it’s Friday night and there’s nothing to do
so we go bowling, drink Blatz™ and I forget about you.
we all have our problems and we comfort each other
a big Muppet posse of my sisters and brothers.
I know I look silly; I don’t know how to bowl
but it’s better than sitting home thinkin’ you have to go.

(chorus & guitar solo a la Rob)

now the next morning I hurt all over.
I smell like a fridge pan and I still ain’t sober.
I feel like an anvil has impacted my head;
I remember my roommate had left me for dead.
I swear to Geoff and Cory that the beer never hit me,
and they say something rude ‘bout the dog that bit me.
last time that I saw you I thought that I’d die
but I’d love to see you again, as long as you buy.


nothin’ much to do on a Friday afternoon;
jump in the shower and flip on the tunes.
wash behind my ears with Green Apple shampoo
while Geoff takes a piss, asks us what we’re gonna do.
blow a kiss to Dawn, buy Laura some roses,
to Anis’ Quo’ Yo park with James and some doses
[here is somethin’ you can’t understand] – Cypress Hill
how laid back I feel with a Blatz™ in my hand.
Jason’s got the knife just like my man MacGyver;
Cory got drunk and he did the Bus Driver.
the girls from SeaView came over to chat
because a picnic in the park is where it’s at.
a cooler full of beer and a couple of hours,
ten or twelve friends and we’re kickin Franklin’s Tower.
Rob’s sippin whiskey ‘cause he doesn’t drink brew
but we’re all pitchin’ in to roll away the dew, y’all.

Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew
Roll away . . . the dew

so we’re back to the grass and we’re all in good spirits
got my radio loud so the Vatos can hear it
wine women and song roll around in my head, yo
[who’s the motherfucker who sample the Dead?] – Geoff Stearns
sat back in my chair and looked at the sky.
I don’t know if it’s life or the pot that’s got me high with
kisses and laughter, pasta and rice;
as Cormick would say it’s time to get [NICE!] – Cormick White
Joe shows up with a half bottle of wine;
the other half’s gone, what makes him feel fine.
yo Geoff…check the chicken a la nutmeg.
[Mike get a load of Laurel’s new bootleg] – Geoff Stearns
[pass me a can of Milwaukee’s Best Effort
I’ll drink the Beast but I won’t give Geoff it] – Cormick White
relaxed and happy at the end of the day
I’ll smoke I’ll eat I’ll drink I’ll play.
got a plate loaded down with all sorts of food.
[Sugar Magnolia] is singin’ for you – Grateful Dead
the stars come out in a sky of dark blue
and the next thing you know we’ve got to roll away the dew.


I’ve got my feet propped high on the cooler.
there’s the sweet smell of Grant rollin’ a home-grown wooler.
I hear screams and laughter from a bunch of my friends
and I wonder if Brian’s broken his arm again.
helping myself to a few devilled eggs
I give Julie a hug [yo guys, where’s the keg?] – Julie Yablonicky
she gives me a kiss and I hand her a cup,
I lean back to my right to turn the radio up:

(guitar break a la Rob)

Rob’s playin’ guitar as the sun’s going down
and all of our friends…they’re gathered around.
we’ll be here next week and maybe we’ll invite you
as long as you know what to do.

(chorus x2)


Posted: February 3, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Geoff and I hiked
to find a level place,
to stretch out with the countryside,
to stop and have a smoke.
trading the pipe-stem back and forth
– when one would speak,
the other would listen –
blowing thoughtful smoke rings
and laughing with the ease of friends.
we sat upon a king of rocks
immersed in the chatter of the waterfalls
aching to hurl ourselves into the air
dreaming of staying there forever.

and somewhere far above us,
our spirits, tall and clear and free,
smoked with us, looking down
their breath touselling our hair.
if I was asked to fly from that cliff
I know we could – and would!

[for Geoff Ian Stearns]

Geoff Stearns rose dripping
from the ocean strung with
seaweed and shaggy hair
but without his glasses
which the mermaids claimed
for the memories.

Geoff, Laura, Joe, Brian and I
went to the river to play outdoors
and to sing, sing ho for this, the life of a bear.
warm rocks, chilly water, and a rope
were for flinging ourselves through the air.
the sun and the wind bathed us in yellow hues.
music from the car ran its fingers
through the roadside oaks,
anticipating every curve,
and setting the bones that Brian broke.
wriggling our way over the mountains,
we witnessed a weaver of wood.