you
can’t stand your face
despite your eyes
and how your lips
speak beautiful lies
are honest opinion
to your ears
covered nicely by
wavy hair
til its up in a bun
and you’re the starving artist
in a soho studio
with an old tee
the past left laying around
white with creative intuition
defining how your life’s been
a lot like your chin
and how it fits in
the top of a loose fist
while you think
and your elbow digs into the thigh
you always noticed
but so did i
skin cooler then the far side
of a pillow case
and dark as hardwood flooring
in a tiny house
because who needs anything big
when you’ve got all you need
right here
in front of you
wearing sandals
made of armadillo hyde

we’re
runnin wild
from
the fear
of knowin’
how to
move

knew me better
knew me well
knew my heaven
painted your hell
know i tried and
know i fell
know my art
never meant to sell
the artist, the mind
the master behind (the piece)
the long nights, we’d find
ending in (bitter release)

love’ll come
it won’t come easy, no
love’ll go
it won’t go easy, no

we’re chasing ghosts
into the
unknown

crooked dreams
and colder feet
runnin wild
from circled repeat
socks with holes
pants are cuffed
sleeves are rolled
pockets stuffed
the things i own
and grown to love
buried deep
not deep enough
that’s what i do
keep things around
a moment stays
when i think it’s found
etched in stone
written on skin
for your eyes to see
the places i’ve been
the churchill drawer
the queens ole town
the wooden gates
i’ll let them down
hold on tight
to the moment now
the moments of then
the questions of how
it all began
it all went down
the story told
the poem out loud
the life we lived
the love we found
hiding in
the artists brow

i’m
a drug
to an addictive
personality
i’m
a bad decision
good people
make
i’m
an impossible fix
to an ordinary
mistake
i’m
a good song
full of words you don’t
understand
i’m
a free mind
wandering places it may never
find
i’m
nice shoes
with holes in his
socks.
i’m
the writer
writing words
written on his chalk board mind
i’m
a drug
preying on  
low hanging
fruit

i hear it in
my dreams,
sometimes
her voice,
her words spoken
slowly,
slow enough to
make out
the meaning in what

she says
and put it together with
the rest.

do
you want
to
talk about
the
muscles we
use
as we
kiss
or only
enjoy
that we
can.

we’ve held summer in our hands
traded fall for one last dance
woke up in the depth of winter
found spring beneath those flowers

and in that beat up car we admired
drove further away when we were tired
you fell into dreams on my shoulder
oh the sweetest of dreams on my shoulder
in the holes of my sweater
in the lines on the road
in the some kind of beautiful they hold

we had two shirts apiece,
jeans and albums in our strapped suitcase
barefoot on the pedals, bare-eyed toward the sunline
old shoes in the back seat, two hours of sleep
only one of them mine

road side flowers ran wild with us
state to state the colors changed with us
asked to stop in northern tennessee
to pick one for you and one for me
we slid the stems into the center vent
and pushed our seats back
propped my feet up on the wheel, yours out the window
we admired the simple existence of those petals
and all the beauty in those weightless leaves
in the color it gave something so, ordinary  

i remember runnin in the rain
clothes got heavy so we became weightless again
there was a whole lot of beauty that night
but nothing like your eyes in the moonlight
the way they folded with your smile
it was like your cheeks have been hiding them for awhile
some kind of beautiful a soul aches to create
your eyes were never the same