Treading Lightly On The Soft Highway

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Treading lightly on the soft highway
Searching onward for the Earthbound divinity
Through the desert with the primal scream
Broken decibels ring out, yet amount to infinity

Silver pistol tucked in drawer of hosiery
Known to man only by a chintzy nom de plume
I always preferred a thick bottomed almanac
Slowed, but we have big energy to exhume

Dawn rises, yet the Truth still silently sleeps
Looking for prophets in the glittering sun
Too bright for our modern, mortal myopia
Be still; be patient as time is not yet overrun

I Could Say I Love You

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I could say I love you
But you stopped listening to me
Searching for another way
Though we’ll never be free

For love has trapped us
Cupid shot me through the shoulder
I don’t know how he got you
But I’m dying & you’re growing bolder

Word By Structured Word

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Word by structured word
Searching for concrete textuality
She dropped her handkerchief coyly
Never again to forget her sexuality

Her head thrown back in a laugh
What makes her heart quicken its beat
I’m pacing – racking my distracted brain
Inspired to write, I hasten to take a seat

Lost In A Deteriorating Moment

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Lost in a deteriorating moment
What more can we do to be free
Close our eyes to the darkness
Tiptoeing quietly, down to the sea
Searching franticly for the answer
But the obvious truth is often a ghost
False memories are unruly traipses
Inclinations leading me, down the coast
Is there a way to be clean again
To bathe in the ocean’s gentle roar
Hope against hope; possibly a way
To find sunshine that might restore

The Carcasses Of Inspiration

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The carcasses of inspiration
Wine glasses with Burgundy residue
Speaking to late nights & early mornings
Scribbles in the margin on the follow through
Feeling parched as I wake
Noticing your lipstick stains
Upon the rim of the glass
Reminding me of the dreams that remain
Bleary eyed, drinking the coffee grounds
Searching for a fate within the dregs
Fumbling over these typewriter keys
Lightheaded when I see your naked legs
Your smile is a distraction
But you pop a button & then one more
I’m at your complete mercy
Once the nightgown hits the floor

Image by TastyCinnamonn from Pixabay

 

Manicured City Walls

 

Manicured city walls
Stomping through summer puddles
Curiosities of a finer life
Scorching rays, can’t help but befuddle
Recoiling to the chaffy shade
Searching for the talisman of the storm
Knowing we’re in for a futile calm
Who could’ve predicted it’d be this warm
But we keep on pushing through
Wicking precipitation from her summer gown
Effort to remain a head above
A damn shame if we perish & drown

Image by Terri Cnudde from Pixabay 

It Was A One-Eyed Kind Of Morn

It was a one-eyed kind of morn

With evening’s festivities going awry

I scrawled out all I could remember

Once a gentleman, turned drunken guy

Slight images of a lovely form

Olfactory sparks upon my brain

Sketching the party’s guest list

But no new faces could remain

Racking my skull for a proper memory

Writing down every & each detail

Compiling a list to rediscover

I’m trying to think, but it’s to no avail

A faceless gown with affectionate gloves

Somehow my mind is able to recall

Cognitive fragments begin to linger

Clouded out by last night’s alcohol

Scenes slowly begin to return

I believe we were out on the dance floor

An embrace of smoldering desire

Yet I couldn’t figure out any more

Scraps of notes spread before me

No identity to place upon the truth

Scant reason to be shy in my search

Basking in honesty of my lapsed youth

Cobwebs have been sparsely lifted

Won’t think of her in the passed tense

Her ghostly touch encourages me yet

We shall meet again, I firmly sense

To hold her with determined spirit

Seems fantastical at this sad rate

Yet she’s left fingerprints upon me

Remaining until I succumb to my fate

Searching Cavernous Souls

Searching cavernous souls
Racking what I might believe
Splitting hairs of fragrant
Ideas wandering down my sleeve
But I’m not more righteous
Than the boys down on the beat
I’m flawed, sensitive – prone to anger
Stuck in a commuting rut; weakly on repeat
There’s quiet secret I might contain
Love & passion bubbling just beneath my skin
I think in poetry, but you desire a hero
Can’t compete with expectations; our mutual chagrin

Most Guys

Most guys

Will tell as many lies

As it takes to get between your thighs

But that’s not my goal

I’m just trying to find something to fill this hole

That has been left in my soul

*this is one of the first poems I can remember writing. I believe it goes back to ’94 or ’95.

I’m Getting Old

OMG! I’m getting old
I’m actively searching
For the edited version
Methodically perching
Watching their content
Preserving young minds
Cultivating the innocence
For you can never rewind