Met a girl in Memphis,
home to Mississippi,
4am to Tunica or Tupelo,
I got lost in the mix of it.

She stole my breath that morning, knocked the wind out of me,
lost the lights of the discotheque,
we were pollinating free.

Psilocybin chocolates and silk *******, stars as far as eyes could see,
city lights replaced by fireflies,
the Delta's soul soothes a detoured man's decree.

Scent of perfume or poison,
could have been the peonies,
moon shined on domestic horses,
staring back cautiously.

Breeze sang static harmonies through the telephone wires,
And we whispered our hearts desires.

If you asked us,
about the world back then,
We'd have a laugh for an answer for you my friend.

I've got a book,
Turns night into innocence,
Let's take a look,
Wrestle with my genesis,
Day trip the night,
Fight away my nemesis,
Succeed with might,
Truths are always meant to bless,
Can't see the light,
That guides my incandescent hell,
Obey the fright,
Dreams are only times to tell.

Don't let it down
It comes from up above
Too much to lose
Purpose is to find love
I'm not a fool
She plays the part like a Jezebel
I can't be ruled
By all your demon spells
My birthstone fights
A path known all so well
I cannot hide
Plain sight is my shell.

Don't let me down...from the soil is where we grow...

Those West Texas *******,
Sure look pretty good to me,
On the way back home,
to Nashville Tennessee.

I don't wanna hang out,
to the east, west, south or north.
Gonna write me a song,
swingin on my front porch.

Crickets sing in the background,
while feet stomp this here oak,
Pass me the slide and I'll take you on down the road.

My woman says I drink too much, and I agree with her,
Tie the devil round the bottle, make me a fishin' lure.

This Road's mighty ******* poor souls, especially the likes of me,
Take your candid pictures now, drown your worries down by the sea.

From where I stand today,
At sixty three years old,
I've lived twice the life,
of any man I've ever known.

No makeup, I got real scars,
All from after hour bars.
Read my poetry palms girl,
tell me If I'm near or far.

Played every stop along the way,
Sometimes got out for free.
Look at this face child,
Don't reckon I owe a fee.

Leaving those West Texas *******,
easier than it seems,
Gettin' back to my front porch is where I Wanna be.

_trf WPbumblefoot

Winds howl through stricken streams,
From the moonshined mountains spiking Tennessee.
Steaming copper pipes protect like turpentine,
Cherish the soil from vine to wine.

Sweetwater medicine crosses Big Sky Country lines,
And a Capitol drowns voice's reedy rhynes.
The Carolines and swamps round' New Orleans,
Spokane's foothills spire like Woodland's Cherokees.

Mushroom clouds swooped ponderosa pines,
In the desert one day, made the earth cry.

Oh Beautiful, not time to flee,
The Jersey Wetlands or Houston's calamity,
Analogous feats, magnetic societies, 
Build a bridge across contrary beliefs. 

_trf

Reckon a billion lingual tongues,
absent ambiguity,
rousing the drum.

Beats hiccup in a maze,
diverting Calypso,
the siren's gaze.

Planes plateau,
sowing seeds of discourse,
coerced by vertigo.  

Foe's vascular veins,
beset vernacular,
clotting famine's riddled drains.

to eat or to hate?

Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.

"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.

Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng Hào bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.

The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.

The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.

Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.

Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.

The  Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks

Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.  
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.

An inner conflict was brewing in the brain of this Regal Man.
Snap shots of his world come and go,
having lost time as his memento.

He never missed the most important meeting
on his calendar each day,
same as planned.

His insipid body,
a vehicle driven by the same shiny things
that attract barracudas.

A papercut on his tongue
from licking an envelope,
was a microscopic distraction.

Yearning for a momentary state of bliss,
it was time for his sinuous routine
to get on with the show.

The *****,
induced a memory of his stoicism,
brought back to life as an afterglow.

Disparate cynics cannot fathom these deepest of depths.  
Man can’t choose his D.N.A.
like he can nomenclature.

Be blessed you are immune child
and take a deep breath.
Habits may be hard to swallow by some;
no plethora of education.
As much of a paradox as this may be,
the pursuit of this dance is not feeling like death.

Knowing that every cylindrical spin of the pistol
can determine the future.
Indulging in an appetite of chaos, will be sure to obscure.

Only hours
before the celebration that gives thanks to our last Harvest,
A quandary, this time was stewing in this stoic man’s galaxy.

On his left shoulder was a badger,
putting his life to THE TEST.
To his right was an angel,
her relentless pleas dismissed.

Like being beset in quicksand,
he dreamed that option was best.
A thought went through his head but vanished like a wave at sea.
Licking his fingers to feel the wind he sang out,
“Memeto- Mori”. (Remember Your Death)