After ***, she fell asleep
and I laid there for some time
thinking about all the collisions
and coincidences that led me
up to this point.
She was a beautiful girl
--blonde hair blue eyes,
you know the deal--
She liked older men,
she had said
while we were speaking
at the bar.
That's when I knew it was
a good thing. That's when
I knew it was good that
I had rented a motel room
so close.
Old men have baggage,
the older you are
the more **** you carry
around like stones.
Older you are, the more ****
everyone else has
to deal with;
especially young
beautiful girls
at a dive bar off of the interstate
hanging around old men.
Especially the old men preying
on younger women at a bar
close to their motel room.

Girls who like older men
are either too naive
to know any better,
or too desperate to give
a ****.

I quietly got up
walked toward the sink,
avoiding carefully the
clothes and wine glasses
that lay all
strewn about the room.
--****** motel--
The ones that still
have the old keys
with that big hole where
the key chain goes.
The water pressure
was terrible
but I ran my face under
the water.
I thought maybe
she must just be naive,
she can't be anything past
twenty or so,
**** still perked and eager
and her thighs still tight.
Not for long,
I would imagine,
not with that inclination
towards older men.
That baggage will weigh
it all down, down, down.

I wish I could
have helped her.
I wish I could have
made her realize
she doesn't much need
the baggage.
--But how do you expect
a lion to tell an antelope not
to get too close?--
You don't.
So I turned off the faucet
and laid back in the bed;
just another old lion
full with thoughts of
the young, eager antelope
and the shame of an
empty victory.

Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.

On the day
she turned to dust
she asked the wind
to be her friend
and it picked her up
and ran her
through the fingers
of it's hands
and it poured her
into pockets
and whispered
to hold on
and before the
church had emptied
they were gone..

you may not know me
face to face,
but you and I have connected
heart to heart through words.

Our lives are woven together by
the tapestry of words,
and into a living breathing poetry.

you and I are no longer strangers,
but fellow poets and sojourners
on this journey of creation.