In many travels across this melting *** of a country I have found that every small town has it's own cast of characters every group has the ******* who cant handle
*****.
The party girl who gets crying and wishes she could start all over again.
And the one to busy living this life to give a **** about what you think or how your
feeling.

After a couple  of weeks it gets to anyone the sense of not belonging.
the constant movement  it eats away at you like rot gut whiskey.
Once even though in agony you so joyfully keep pouring down your throat.

And the conversations become the same are we but playing a game
saying whatever it takes to get what we want.
But what is it we truley want?

Comfort of a warm body by are side the feeling of flesh apon flesh.
It has to be more than just *** but out here I belive its to feel
what its like to benormal and for one moment pretend you wont  be
walking out that door to chase sun once agian.
Living like a pirate apon the land.

Not matter her body's warmth when you leave you never havea chance to
know the bad or the reallity of people.
thats why im forever a tourist.

A drink isn't hard to swallow,
but a divorce, a lost child, death, they are.
The wind comes up, blows away dreams,
ends marriages, sifts through plans,
hopes, throws out what it wants.

A drink isn't hard to swallow,
but growing old, pain, dying dogs, they are.
The wind comes up, tears our garments,
exposes our frailties, our nakedness,
thoughtlessly shreds our defenses.
At times like these
A drink isn't hard to swallow.
---

The sky smelled like rain today.
Thick with the promise
of relief. Thick like the scent of
your body that seeped into every
letter you sent promising you'd
come back today. I still have
those letters, all twenty. Twenty letters
from twenty days all promising the
same thing, seven pm tonight.
Everything on earth just knew
the rain was coming. For the first
time in months the trees played
their song as the wind danced
in rhythm. Even the dust jumped
higher, like it was reaching out
for the rain that hadn't come.
 
The day drug on like time stood still.
But the sky still smelled like rain.
I heard the birds singing about it.
They weren't the only thing singing,
my soul was singing right beside them.
 
Six o'clock came and the sky got dark.
The rain was almost here. The air and
my heart were heavy with expectation.
The winds danced faster and the trees
moaned louder as they welcomed the
rain.
But my song ended because you weren't there.
The clock struck seven and the sky cried
out. Seven times he screamed at the top of
his lungs.
gongBOOM...
 
 
 
gongBOOM...
 
 
 
gongBOOM...
 
 
 
gong­BOOM...
 
 
 
gongBOOM...
 
 
 
gongBOOM...
 
 
 
gongBOOM...
and­ the rain came down,
all night long sky and I cried.
Cried for different reasons but we cried together.
All night sky cried the joy of release
and the world cried in relief.
All night I sat by my window and cried in disappointment
because you never came. All night I watched
for you, but your shadow never darkened my door
but your absence darkened my heart.
 
The sky smelled like rain yesterday.
Thick with the promise
of relief. Thick like the scent of
your body that seeped into every
letter you sent promising you'd
come back yesterday. The rains came,
but where were you?

I didn’t know them then,
these powers–
cleansing, flowing–
but awareness was not required
for use.

Now, some draw from my well
and its cultivated depths
for bathing and the slow erosion
of rough edges,
for refreshment,
for finding new paths–
and I know my purpose.

But to you, I was always transparent,
and in those days,
the glassy surface was yours
to interpret, and the plunge–
though drowning was on your mind.
Perhaps, with time,
I bored through you without intent
to leave you a canyon
to leave me.

The tide goes out in retreat,
splashing myself over your earth no longer.
When I return,
I am wave touching water,
single and whole.
The desert people come
to drink from my well,
and you with your camel and canyon and empty canteen.