What will our last words
to each other be?
And how will they come?

Will they come in a scream,
full of poison and vile,
punctuated with a slammed door?

Or will they be apologies,
written in a letter:
"So sorry...goodbye."

Maybe they'll be sweet
and we two, having lived our lives,
will kiss one last time
and let out last words stay as secrets.

Maybe we won't know when they've come,
and we'll just drift apart.
Our last words meaning
nothing, at all.

But what fun would it be,
If we knew the ending?

Sometimes, I feel you pull away from me
And I can tell that you're about to run again
It feels wrong to not be with you
And I think that you know it too
So you run, when we get close
Did you know I can run?
And the more you run from me
The more I run from you
Until one day
We're running away from each other
At top speed

Come dear
I've been drinking,
and I want to drink you in.

The bottles,
they flew open
the phone
it would not ring.

They say I have been
screaming
But I haven't heard
a thing

Come dear,
I've been drinking
And I want
to drink
you in.

The horizon was a sea of corn stalks,
stretching out endless in either direction
swaying in the breeze and
I imagined it had a breath of its own.

We laid there naked in the field,
behind the burnt out foundation
of the old farmhouse.

A blue moon gave us some light
and a glow to your skin

Stumbling there in the night
Rollin on the dirt
with skinned knees
and laughter

You pressed your flesh to mine
I kissed you deeply
and knew peace.

I like the way my hands look like in the light of a fire,
I think.
It could be the drugs, or the drinking
Or sleep I haven't been sleeping,
But every year,
When winter has gone, and spring stands defiantly ahead,
I am reminded of this,
I like my hands,
In the light of fire,
With a good bit of dirt on them,
And a jug of rotgut wine in them.
I like the way my hands look in the light of a fire.

Today the plane rocked
and shook
like hell.
And normally I would
think of dying
and then this time
I thought of dying still.

But instead of imagining
the impact,
and the fire,
and the screams,
I imagined the faces
of the people I knew
when they heard of my end.
I thought of her, wishing
she had bothered to say
goodbye,
or that she hadn't turned away
when the puzzle pieces fit
and she found out how I felt.

So this time when the plane shook
I said
"Let the **** thing burn."
I'm not going back to
anything
anyways.

I woke early on a Sunday morning
around five or
six
and I thought to myself
"this is ideal."
Like most nights I experience
I was awake while the
world slept
but on this occasion,
the promise of a day
lingered in front of me.

So after re-heated coffee
from the day before
I hopped into my old truck
and went for a drive
on roads populated only
by the silence of a morning
and me

All the streetlights changed for
me, and each cigarette
exploded only for me
a show in the dark hours
of the morning
and I drove around
this way, until the sun started
to rise
showing the light of the morning dew
the weeping earth