My God girl you had me talking,
For fifteen odd hours,
About anything and everything,
Well into the night.

That's an hour for each month I was away,
Fifteen hours to catch up,
On all the things I wanted,
To say to you.

I didn't get it all out,
I know you wouldn't let me say,
I still love you,
But it was surely implied.

I know you fought sleep all night,
To tell me in jaded words,
That I'm still bouncing around,
In your ribcage.

I know there's still a spark,
Even after so long apart,
And that you feel the need to be held,
As you drift off to sleep.

I promise I can fight off all your demons,
With my warm embrace,
And maybe a kiss or two,
If only you'll let me try.

I know you implied that someone,
You surely need by your side,
To fight the darkness once again,
Will always be me.

And I know I said I'm sorry,
About a thousand ******* times,
But I'll say it another,
Thousand ******* times.

When last we said goodnight,
I drifted off to fitful sleep,
Sorely missing our conversation,
And dreaming of you all night.

Awake. Not dreaming
Thinking & Creating.
Cold but warm hearted
By myself but never really alone

Created but I can be destroyed
Wounded but never broken
Changing to fit this world
But deep in my own
Thoughts...

So many artists struggle to find their style.
Then fully become said style.
As writers work to find their voice
and fully become that voice,
but I have no voice or style
I am multitudinous,
multi-dimensional.
There is an infinite variety
of possible and impossible realities
which exist inside of me.
So I express such diversity
with almost the same variety
of verbal and visual tools provided for me;
Not confined to how you define I should write
but free to discover everything.

A message from you makes me blush
I swear this ain't a crush
I let down my guard
And yes fell abit too hard

They say I'm insane
But am I really to blame?
I don't know how to put it
But I swear you've got it

The radience of your smile
May be seen for miles
Your perfect fair skin
Makes my eyes spin

But your soul
You truly have a heart of gold

So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,

separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.

In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.

It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,

but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.

In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls

the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.

The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid

abstracts.

I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch

and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—

the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.

When she comes
she brings the snow with her,
circling her white hair
in spirals and waves.
When she comes
the sun shines brighter
even behind the clouds
that veil the horizon.
When she comes
I'm always there,
ready to fall in love
over and over again.