I’ll allow you space to grow older gracefully You are free to live however feels just right I’m not one to interfere nor infringe Just remember me before you blow out the lights
Let us not count, pluck nor dye the grey hairs I’m going to love you long after life permits Our souls commingling in the afterlife With all that said, I’ll still think you have great tits
The world can only hold so many poets
Woefully claiming Bukowski as their inspiration
Worshiping a habitual womanizer & drunk
Answering questions with little to no imagination
I’m doing my best to fill up the lines & empty spaces
With these ink splotches spreading upon the page
Distinct notions of what I believe to be right
But I’m only displaying the curmudgeon side of my age
Shove off from those heroes & clip art stick figures
We need fresh voices with an authentic feel
No more grave-robbing stale words & artifacts
We need to release the future & embrace what’s real
Oh, where does our journey end Or begin, as it so often might seem Futile attempts to erase the past The unknown details of our dreams
The open road panders to a false escape The mere opportunity to rewrite a sojourn Jesus perambulating with Uncle Walt Debating the path; perchance to learn
Shaky prospects in apportioned time Manifest destiny teases Ginsburg & Kerouac Further roads leading to ornate wisdom & we keep it concealed out in the back
Thoreau mocking society with his solitude Knowing alone is the greatest we could ever be Thoughts come to us in gentle waves That perhaps our visions should become the sea
A reinterpretation of westward expansion Route 66 cross-contaminating Highway 61 All roads have never led us home Emily tempting Death with her life left undone
The growing wisdom of our consumed space Emerson’s penning pre-revolutionary blues Introducing our souls to unrefined grace The Good Lord providing Her unfiltered muse
Feeble humanity; lost across the tracks Original sin that we’ve taken on the chin Sifting thought; we might be welcomed again But knock off the Devil’s dust before you come in
But he never learned how to read a book Or even the right words to steadily consume Never expect anyone to be your savior For intelligence, you gotta make the room
An innocent looking soul Draped with an ethereal gown Confident strides across the patio With Eve’s revenge Crisp air – like the first bite of a green apple Obscured; knowing her nectar to be my cure
I watch her bosom swell It’s not objectivization For I worship her Refreshed in waves This transparent Victorian hypocrisy Knowing all that ails & an unseen wound
Yet morning crests Pale orange sky forces it’s way through space In the arms of naked trees I’m celebrating femininity Spring’s arrival in a sundress As she teases me with breathless recitals Our love not by design But still goes well with NorCal wine
“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”
― Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing