Sitting Here At The End Of The World

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Sitting here at the end of the world
Running my fingers through the sand
Watching the weight of the waves
Finally time is a theory I can understand

Stripped down without societal guilt
Seeking answers down along the shore
Confused it took me all these years
Yet, that doesn’t mean there isn’t still more

Sitting At The Windowsill

Sitting at the windowsill
Fingers stained by my ink
Face red & tranquilly humbled
Cold & tumbled; too frozen to think


The nights are dropping temps
I’ll need to do everything to keep warm
Though I’m unwrapping each layer
Eagerly embracing your gracious form


Life is a fine chance to love you
Trading kisses as I adjust your weary crown
Telling stories of our younger days
& the magic that happened in a little Arizona town

Image by Lou Blazquez from Pixabay

She Wore White To The Hanging

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She wore white to the hanging
Fingers smudged from setting the patriarchy to burn
She wore a guilty smile
For they would never ever seem to learn

By her beauty, they were always distracted
But her brains they never could comprehend
Once the fire went viral
They wished they could call her a friend

They picked such an angelic foe
Yet kept her bound by tradition & canon & law
But you can never chain ideas down
Imprudence by the state was the final straw

Continual pandering as a cultural trait
Overwrought force; their idea as the solution
The spark still smoldering in her eyes
Never again the victim, she’s the whole damn revolution

*This is a reaction to rewatching the movie Cat Ballou with modern eyes.

I’m Seeking A Truth

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I’m seeking a truth within these fragmented words

My thoughts won’t cooperate with how my fingers move

Typing on this old handmedown machine to transform

My mundane existence into a magical, deliberate groove

I am not afraid to expose the flesh of a wilted soul

There are no heroes in these parts, just broken misanthropes

Internalizing the segmented society & all the villains

Returning to coffee so black the void regains precious hope

Awake Early In The Naked, Teal Morning

Awake early in the naked, teal morning

Still wet from dancing in the rain

My subconscious kissing her femininity

But the memories remain love-stained

Her fingers gripping my shoulders

Our souls constantly trying to absorb

Soft, low moans quietly evident

I’m enchanted by her fleshy orbs

We’re exposed in the light of dawn

A realness that won’t be concealed

We have a glow of our own

No words exist, but a truth she can feel

Picking Up My Girl Along The Way

Picking up my girl along the way
A short enough skirt that’ll surely tease
Soft tones upon the extinguished day
Wine & song that I might forever please

Snapping fingers & popping buttons
Ample latitude that I might play her fool
Admittedly; for her touch I’m a glutton
My own words reveal me to still be uncool

My ravishing mettle giving her just cause
Subtly picking up her heels and hemline
This rakish spirit providing her pause
Exposing joy & unadulterated sunshine

I Can Use All The Proper Words

I can use all the proper words
When needed, I can even be discrete
Whispering the sauciest story you ever heard
My dear, because of you, I am complete
I tend to be modest, but our love is real
By your coy smile, I know I’m on the right track
Your fingers trace & slowly reveal
My God woman! You have the loveliest rack!