Give the David his due,
...give your devil to you?
When I wake before her
I set a *** of coffee
and let my ears catch gunshots
They say the old don’t sleep
that their lives sit too heavy in their heads
volumes full of names they’ve forgotten
and people outlived
At the edge of town hunters drag in doe
They are bulls towing a plow through ash
I am a boy at daggers with being
and I tell her I know nothing anymore
When she yawned it wasn’t sleep pulling at her
it was her dreams
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon
in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken
knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)
will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag
we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching
besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)
asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one
tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction
could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it
too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
Frame your Sunday brunch as a childhood sweetbit,
manufacture after the capture with more redflags;
pour relations after kith and kin with feigned hit.
The brunch is done and so is our agreement.
The contract is as napkin math, undone and smeared
***** lipstick and cigaretted.
Forget about it, the millennium came and went and gone.
All we have now is a time eerily similar to another
without the escape of waking up and wiping face with yawn.
Cumbersome troubles on our sleeves tattoo'd for self-expression.
But what did you need so badly to tell us about yourself, what lesson
shall we learn through the sifting of eyefucks in Starbucks.
Through the popular apathy of shrugged shoulders when mentioned Sisyphusian boulder.
What else could?
And in your gleaning of brilliant observation on the banality of complaints.
What did you muster as axiom within your world-view of constraints?
Did your unfinished novel and penchant for humanities,
remove you further from nature than consciousness,
remove you further from what makes us you and me?
The condition we live in, despite temporal and generational
hinges on the livings of lives.
The thrives and thrivings of not,
cannot be captured nor caught
within the shallow swaip of a Sunday portrait turned to the side for landscape.
The alligator in my swamp
The hornet in my nest
Whispered softly under the meteor showered sky,
I'm the only one who'll know.
Because he never had a soul,
He never could remember mine.
Tides move in swiftly
when the moon has to let us know
how powerful she is
and her phosphercsecent glow
Howling songs in the distance
like southern cicadas do
asking her to forgive us
holding hands next to you
I was born down south
I was raised by the heat
Cornbread in my mouth
I crave a country beat
When I go to the river
And the levy breaks
Don’t blame me
for all the mess we create
you sing lullabies
Like Mother Nature
You overwhelm the skies
But in the morning
And three cups of coffee
The only rhythm is my heart beating trepidatiously
Every night I’m lulled to sleep,
By the dripping of heavy dew,
By crickets as they play their song,
By the Owl asking, “Who?”
But just before I fall asleep,
I hear a *****’s Scream.
The foxes are mischievous,
As they prance beside the stream.
A moth is fluttering on the glass,
She’s enchanted by the light,
Of the little lamp beside the bed,
To keep away the Night.
And once the light is gone again,
And everything is still,
The cicadas sing a special song.
I’m delighted by their trill.
And when I can’t resist it,
When my time to sleep grows nigh,
I close my eyes and listen,
To a Southern Lullaby.
Mama didn't raise a player,
But here is the thing about me...
Two men want my attention,
But... 'twas once three!
When I walk my hips sway,
A rhythm hard to resist...
I turn must men down,
Yet they tend to persist.
Is it my dark, secretive eyes?
WHAT IS IT about me?
Two men love me deeply,
But... 'twas once three!
I am grateful for my luck
But the reason I sing my song
Its cause two men love me
But I only need one.