To listen to this thunder with me.
No make-up on, wear one of my
Shirts; leave what's left of
Yesterday's mascara.
I love you more, when you don't.
I need a woman.
I want to smell yesterday on you,
Perhaps your legs should have been
Shaved, but I have an itchy back
I can run across them;
Costs you nothing but a pose.
I need a woman who says "You
Really should not go in there,
Use the sink, I'll do the dishes with
Antibac tomorrow."
I need a human. Not a Victoria's Secrets
Model; someone all blood and bones
And body who puts my hand
Under my shirt,
And says: *"I know you're a poet,
So if I only give you this, you'll still
Find enough in there to keep you
Occupied with a poem about it until
******* is over, and I can give you
The rest..."*
I have a friend who can clear his whole
Restaurant for us.
The fact that you'd rather be here with
Me, on this sofa, makes me wish you were
Real. I need a woman.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
I promised myself I wouldn't drink
This morning, but
Ring of Fire was playing on the
Radio as I showered.
I guess we shared some demons, J.
Well, here's to us. To how
My father played your songs
For me when only my mother's
Skin and bones were between us.
Here's to you and me, John.
How I cried when June passed, but
Drank to your joining her. To
How you boom-chika-boomed to
The taste of the ice cold beer on her
Warm lips in New Orleans
As we stopped among the piles of
Katrina rubble just to take it all in
(Including each other);
That we were there. Together.
Here's to you, John. To how Rick
Rubin was a prophet sharing your light
One last time with the humble masses
Before it went out. As it should be. As it
**** well should be. To
How my father loved you his whole life
And never got to shake your hand
(But I brought him to meet Willie,
Which was almost as intense to the old man.)
No rest for the wicked, John. So I'll
Never pray that you rest in peace.
I pray that you rock on -June at your
Side- Going to Jackson, when it's
Springtime in Alaska. Remembering
Forks wedged in the walls of San Quentin
And gritty glasses of water served.
I'm putting on my black shirt after
This drink. Then guitar, boots that could
Kick out the foot lights at the Grand Ole,
And an attitude I've adopted with honor.
Here's to us, John.
Walking the
God-
******
Line.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
I don't sleep.
I pace.
I ponder.
I plan.
I plot.
I worry.
I wonder.
I wax.
I wane.
I relive.
I rethink.
I rehash.
I regret.
I contemplate.
I evaluate.
I deliberate.
I ruminate.
I analyze.
I strategise.
I dramatize.
I fantasize.
I brood.
I delude.
I stress.
I obsess.
I oppress.
I'm a mess..
& I don't sleep.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Full of different stories, each box a world of its own.
The box to the left has classic music creeping out of its edges early in the mornings. It holds a lady who forgets her very own name but never misplaces yours. Elegant and frail, yet strong like the hope she holds for the world. For she knows the terrible state it is in. She makes you want to invite yourself over for tea. Tea in a truly safe place.
Downstairs a box burst at the seams with healthy laughs the kind from way down deep, and the smell of true soul food. Faithful is the lady who belongs to this box. Her hugs are a mother's love. Yet serious is the tone in her voice to remind you when praise goes up, blessing come down, and Prayer is one thing not to be forgotten in the chaos of life.
Dare I begin to wonder about my own box. What it may be in the eyes of others. They hear it is full of open doors waiting to be slammed. Two opinions without enough room. It is a box full of muffled cries from one soul and more obvious yelling from another, a box built on tired and breaking support beams ready to give way.
I keep hold to fading sliver of hope that everyone around, see two young people lost in the echoes of this world, just trying to make a box into a home.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC