#cityoflips
not one,
but many, for the transitional
is everywhere about, the sun
heats, but the fall chill negates,
the animals sense the change,
knowing instinctively that soon,
soon enough, the land will be
of humans almost denuded, and
they may go forth, about, their
reclaimed land, writing their own,
history, their own stories and their
own poetry, and the treaty between
nature, living creatures, earth,
and once more,
their national Day of Interdependence,
will be freely celebrated...
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC
the best thing you could teach two another
is how to love themselves,
so they can return the favor;
now that would be a refund!
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
anthem
we pledge allegiance
to each other, our state
of-just-the-two-of-us,
hands on each other’s
heart, we cocoon, snuggle,
it’s always warm in our land
like Camelot, never rains,
always in agreement, every
votes never tied, for we are
a colorless world, only one,
the color of the day, is what
we feel, create, and believe
we sing only duets, our music,
only perfect pitch harmonies,
this our anthem, sung twice daily
when the sun should rise,
and when it should set, but,
since our sun never leaves
we do it for pure pleasure
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
our hips fit,
our hands entwine,
fingers unlockable,
laughing twogether,
“mighty fine”
she’s wearing the Levi’s,
I’m wearing the Strauss,
and it looks like we
been stitched together
her hand slides
easy in,
to my back pocket,
smiling
she announces,
we like, fit,
like a wedding announcement,
we fit like,
like an old country song
we see a movie
with our crew,
lights go up,
everybody loved it,
she secretly, her nose
wrinkly wrinkles,
one too long car chase,
my eyes are grinning
from corner to corner,
knowing she’s knowing
i’m all in, full in her
with agreement total
they took us to a tailor,
suits we required,
made to measure,
fit as perfect, as
perfect we be, as
perfect as we were,
matching customized,
white shirts, black tie,
shiny black shoes,
for matching caskets,
everyone saying
we just fit together,
even now,
crying ‘so long,’
for so long,
see you guys
so soon,
you two
fit,
like an old country song, one that everyone knows, all the words.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 2:15 AM UTC
~for John Prine~
she’s eye closed, playing sleepy possum,
so I stealthy stroke her cheek, she, all smiling,
then I nose tickle my sweet-love, now frowning,
till I cease and desist, go back to stroking,
then I’m her good loving man once again
tune comes in my head from out of left field,
start to tap the beat, pic my guitar strings, roaming
all over her smooth features, now she’s all aroused,
cause she knows what I’m about and this strumming,
why that ain’t allowed, so she knocks my fingers away
later, sneak into the kitchen, she’s fussin’ - could be,
cleaning, could be cooking, but soon she ain’t moving,
cause she’s just listening to the new tune first played
earlier that morn, on her features born, a love song,
calling that song “Playing with My Love’s Face”
now she’s grabbing the biggest knife I ever seen,
waving it to and too close to fro, in my direction general,
waving it like a baton, conducting my song, singing along,
making up her own lyrics, whole stanzas, now it’s her song,
**** if that ain’t “the way the world goes round”
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 8:39 AM UTC
I’ve Got A Guilty Heart and a Texas Troubled mind
looks as if I’ve won the losing lovers lottery twice,
had me the bonus number, now my silver buckle,
getting an overdue shine-up, my heads getting full
of regret and wondering, so my Daddy’s Stetson 6.75 size
nowadays, fit real tighter over my piled-up cowgirl braids
got excuses plenty, none worth sharing, none,
that’ll change nothing, two hearts continental drifting,
and with all the lyrics I write, got not a one about
how we let each other get away, the jukebox playing
Dixie Chicks “Cowboy Take Me Away”
think I’ll cover it in my next set, he will be sad down in Brownsville,
me, be traveling-singing in a dive bar up near Amarillo, no body
will be sad for me, no cowbodys posting no videos, no telling then,
but I’ll chance it, he will never know, cause I don’t want to
make him swollen sadder than he be already
somebody says god made country songs so sad so the world
could knowing-nod, been there, done that, in case company
might make you feel better, but it don’t till I right the wrong,
till I write the lyric that won’t explain much, but me, taking
the rightful blame, living with a guilty heart & troubled heart
me, way up north, but not so far away, still in Texas that’s for sure,
for the heart has a range finder that knows the GPS of where he be,
and the exact distance between us...
—-
“*I've got a guilty heart
And a troubled mind
No matter where I go
You're never far behind
I'd like to think
That you've forgiven me
But forgiveness ain't enough
To wash my conscience clean”*
lyric from “Not Cause I Wanted To” by Al Anderson / Bonnie Bishop
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 4:51 PM UTC
*speckled cityscape compulsion
<>
it is 6:40am.
the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film
that I’ve seen many times.
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
slept through it thankfully
the kitchen window gives up a sunrise,
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
a streaking swath of burnt and bright,
so oft described, the color commentary
previously immortalized by better poets
than me, easy found elsewhere.
the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity,
it is their moment, these red flashes, all about,
tall buildings chanting “stay away from me”
to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land
in a tumbled jungled of obscene density.
still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges,
burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue,
compelled against my will to thankful write,
for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed,
cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments.
a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself.
the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies
will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars,
at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing.
Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted ***** Hershey white chocolate,
checked by adults for safety and quality control.
all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings,
in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning
is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence,
where each patron fills in the empty sounds
with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips
in fervent unspokeness
the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River,
for a reflection is always a second best version.
30 minutes later the real and the apparition both,
disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky,
just an old rerun, familiar deviltry.
why is the sun rising
is so worshipped,
for there will never be a full day of
just sunrise colorations,
but the speckled reds still
a true color, still showing,
on perpetual guard duty,
bidding adieu to its
morning lovers,
until tomorrow,
in my city of lips.
sun. oct. 20 2019
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 8:21 AM UTC
“your children not to do what I have done”
long has this phrase from that old song,
to wit, to which,
we all knew it complete,
that phrase
and this one too,
teach them well their father’s hell will slowly go by
any parent,
knows instantly their secret experiences
validating these pregnant phrases to
unification,
combination and definition
our looking face down
on the children unafraid,
and
our looking back
at the mistakes we ourselves made,
that no one could have warned us of in advance
can we warn them well,
dare we tell,
make our lore their history,
make them
too careful and too afraid
not to repeat our mistakes,
but be not fearful to
make their own?
doubtful.
I am a young woman, and pappy says all parents have eyes in the back of their heads, and it still don’t help much
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
pretty words for pretty girls
*courageous caress of a send key pressed,
after practicing
speechless up to the assumed,
up to assured point of perfect,
flawlessness, visible in each invisible breath,
pauses full of poignant stories unspoken
but eye cleared visible for seeing the future*
pretty words for pretty girls
*intuition incorporates superstition,
unending, intending infatuated moon gazing,
but not pagan worshiping, no it is love worshiping
your hiding cave places are moon apertures dark spots,
impenetrable to my eye’s naked telescoping,
but heartbeats spring my unharnessed love poems to you
me and millions whisper in full certainty of our
lost but beloved presences, moon stored for us,
my darling dares the light shine upon my bay,
here to me, our path, a moonlight waving hand
provides on many nights, a clear direction to follow,
pseudo-thrills of continence that my vision uncovers,
but my body knows is but a poor substitute*
pretty words for pretty girls
*my disease has a diagnosis.
your body attacked,
your body reacts,
defeats the infector,
remembering the next time
that disease comes round
how it got beat prior
and how to do it again*
so how come I’m falling love once more?*
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 5:20 PM UTC
for the ladies who liquid lunch
<>
the finest young women of the wild west,
(the best of course just might be in Texas)
don’t always get educated in the things best,
no private schools, so somethings sometimes,
like the upscale training of the taste buds,
must be learned on the job, training the palate,
by growing up, self+taught, thank god, yes!
<>
your salty taste
reminds me of ruffled potato chips, bugles, beef jerky
and
your very own brand of
loving tears
it’s true you know,
impossible to eat
just one, which is
why my tonguing
of your body parts,
is unceasingly seizing
I will always be found
attached unbreakably,
to your moving image,
moving inside of me
so sweet your salt,
it’s your story,
your flavored lives living on
in poems unnamed, to disguise
but the authorship of whom,
in body, in mind, so obvious,
cause in all your poems is a tangy
salty
impossible to eat just one
****
<>
p.s. you tease me mean,
cowman,
bbq and béarnaise,
sassafras and edible petals,
molasses and kosher salt,
ingredient combination
which of course
you just made up,
so I show my appreciation
biting your arm so my permanent
teeth marks,
will remind me,
and you too,
just how salty
biting Texas heifers who
can or cannot be salt cured
when
it’s their turn to write some
real good tasting
poetry
****
back for more already?
****
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC