In the early morning hours,
She's tucked in.
Wide awake and dreaming,
Of some place she hasn't been.

In the early morning hours,
She'll count sheep.
Too many thoughts and people,
To distract her from her sleep.

In the early morning hours,
She will sigh.
Questioning existence,
And the never ending 'why.'

She had dried His feet
with her hair. She’d not
forgotten that. Not long
after she’d seen the same

feet nailed and bloodied
to the wooden down beam.
Her tears had helped wash
them, those feet, she later

remembered the tingle she
had felt as her long hair
dried them, something in
touching, emptied her of

self and opened up her
darker self. Had He seen
more than others, understood
what others were blind to,

forgave what others condemned?
That moment, His feet in
her hands, touching her hair,
her hands. His eyes spoke to

her, His words pinpricked her,
each sin (as others saw them)
scabbed over as he went by,
His shadow kind of healed her.

She knew that now, not then
so much, after His demise (or
so seemed) and the placing in
that tomb, she felt letdown,

emptied, like after some dark
passage ***. But she’d seen
Him after, the feet healed,
the holes unbloodied, His

voice soothed her inner coil
keyed up tight. But mostly she
recalled the washing of His feet
on that warm moon filled night.

What I see
Wishes blindness upon me
Echoes on selfishness what I hear
I fear
Your sinful nature
Lack of willpower
Makes me hate loving you

You peak behind your path contoured
A quarter glimpse keeps me coming
Following your silhouette
Forgetting what I heard

Grow a pair;
Lets punctuate
Not fluctuate

It's not in the release I hesitate

but in the frisky, frazzled farewells

I can't tell you how much you're in my thoughts
Because the words get tangled in my throat
And my cheeks go red at the sound of your name.
I'm too shy to tell you how I feel,
How much I ache for you to notice me,
How I remember our small conversations.
Sometimes I catch you glancing my way,
And sometimes I let myself think you were looking at me.
So I guess I'll settle for the quiet hellos
And the constant dreaming of your hand in mine.

It’s winter
and the radiators make for hot summer bedrooms,
fake heat for a false season,
high humid air in the canopy,
a western, British, Tunisian bazaar.

But outside the window frame into
the rooftop mouth
of chimney teeth and foggy breath,
a pair of speckled starlings,
with deep coffee eyes and rings
of white for plumage decoration,
nest in the wound of this building.

Surely if they migrate,
to warmer climates, past
the Spanish-African gate, they’d
be able to bask in the dawn desert
sun that’ll drift slowly overhead,
raise their young their instead.
I’d like to migrate too,
leave this town for
somewhere new.

I'm a rough rider with a Henry rifle.
You're forced to sling ***** in a smoke filled saloon.
I'm just a cowpoke kickin' dust with cattle.
Whiskey's needed and gamblin' and a fun tune.
Gallop my pinto to Silverado's Star.
Saw the perdiest little thang at he bar.
Order the good stuff, say, "Howdy," take a belt.
I reckon I falled in love, they way I felt!