"pickups" poems
It's been months since I played it,
The guitars have my exams in their way,
They miss me at Karnal just as I miss them here at Rohtak.
The strings crave to be played - to be touched by me,
It's high time that I played it so the tuning must be long lost,
The hollow & the pickups feel lonelier in my memory without me & strings missing my touch.
I must hold them in my hands and write musical notes with them,
I will make the strings my pallet & strum them in rhythm while I sing,
I will apologize to my guitars for having ignored them knowingly.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
she was hot, she was so hot
I didn't want anybody else to have her,
and if I didn't get home on time
she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-
I'd go mad. . .
it was foolish I know, childish,
but I was caught in it, I was caught.
I delivered all the mail
and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run
in an old army truck,
the **** thing began to heat halfway through the run
and the night went on
me thinking about my hot Miriam
and jumping in and out of the truck
filling mailsacks
the engine continuing to heat up
the temperature needle was at the top
HOT HOT
like Miriam.
leaped in and out
3 more pickups and into the station
I'd be, my car
waiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couch
with scotch on the rocks
crossing her legs and swinging her ankles
like she did,
2 more stops. . .
the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hell
kicking it over
again. . .
I had to be home by 8,8 was the deadline for Miriam.
I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal
1/2 block from the station. . .
it wouldn't start, it couldn't start. . .
I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the
station. . .
I threw the keys down. . .signed out. . .
your ********* truck is stalled at the signal,
I shouted,
Pico and Western. . .
. . .I ran down the hall,put the key into the door,
opened it. . .her drinking glass was there, and a note:
sun of a *****
I waited until 5 after ate
you don't love me
you sun of a *****
somebody will love me
I been wateing all day
Miriam
I poured a drink and let the water run into the tub
there were 5,000 bars in town
and I'd make 25 of them
looking for Miriam
her purple teddy bear held the note
as he leaned against a pillow
I gave the bear a drink, myself a drink
and got into the hot
water.
6.3k
Hare Krishna's
In their Pickups
Depressed Comics
Down on their Luck
Teenage Girls
Screaming Meme's
****** Pinko's*
Leftward Leaning
Vincent Price
Flo and Eddie
Rodger Rabbit
Priscilla Presley
Nuns in Habits
Dwarf's in Ponchos
Deadbeat Dads
Munching Nachos
Right-Wing Nut Jobs
Trading Slogans
A few Hero's
Including Hogan
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Buddhist Monks
With Electric Banjos
Holding Signs Up
Of Marlon Brando
Taxi Cabs
Blaring Show Tunes
Pregnant Women
Down-loading Soon
Derby Jockeys
Flying Monkeys
Kool-Aidholics
Skittle Junkies
Bozo The Clown
Bumper Stickers
Psychedelic
Crazed Toad Lickers
Rhinestone Cowboys
In their Skivvies
Gothic Girls
Heebie Jeebies
Are just a few of the sights you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Blue Haired Granny's
In pink Moo Moos
Ballerina's In
Tattered Tutus
Mathematician's
Number Crunchers
Even have Some
Out to Lunchers
Model 50's
*Do *** Daddies*
One More Round Of
Flo and Eddie
People Sneaking
Across the Border
Lonely Fry Cooks
Taking Orders
A Few Wannabes
Not Saying Much
Will The Real Elvis
Please Stand Up
Are just a few of the sights that you see
At the front gates of Graceland
Memphis, Tennessee
Thank you...Thank you very Much
Ladies and Gentlemen
Elvis...Has Left The Building
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
On the west side of Starlite Dr.,
just inside of Kingfisher -- before the welcome sign,
stood a Wal-Mart.
Underneath dim lot lamps,
dry oil caked the cracked pavement.
Crickets hopped over cricket corpses.
Two employees took turns lighting new cigarettes
with the still-hot embers of old cigarettes.
There were six sedans, two pickups, and three semi-trucks
outside the store.
2 a.m.
Parked car.
I noticed an effulgent memorial on the fringe.
Subject unclear from a distance,
but statue certain;
gleam of bronze certain.
Followed the black chain-framed path
to a lemon brick-backed display:
Sam Walton
Hometown Kingfisher
And there you stood, Sam.
With a bobble of a bronze head,
gorilla arms, and some charcoal
canine frozen mid-pant to your side--
Beams of light shining into your carved eyes,
yellowed grass at your feet.
And I wonder,
Did you feel cruel?
Beginning as a Five and Dime,
then turning into the great killer of Five and Dimes.
Sitting at a table telling all your friends, they could watch you eat.
Too forward, too soon.
You being dead and all.
To be fair, I've got that ambition too, Sam.
The kind that leaves you lonely.
The kind that leaves you in the back booth of a diner.
The kind that makes the dunces conspire.
Yeah, there are very few differences between you and me.
Those being
I'm not a cartoon statue,
crickets aren't crawling on my face,
big-bellied tourists don't pose and snap photos at my place,
I'm mortal, and you're the other one.
Looked around.
Stood in front of you.
Stared in the direction your obsidian eyes stared.
You overlooked the traffic.
And though Target gets all the hot, middle-aged women
and fiery college kids,
you get the pleasure of watching real folks leave.
The tobacco chewers,
the moms of six,
the grease monkeys,
the third grade teachers;
the grandparents
all simmer and meld by traffic stop.
It seems fitting for you, Sam.
Watching over us,
your consumers.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
I'm sick
I'm sick of every filter
I'm sick of fake photographers
I'm sick of fake philosophers
and Instagram pornographers
I'm sick of the fake feminists
who don't understand the movement
I'm sick of fake politicians
who make no ******* improvements
I'm sick of all the favorites
I'm sick of all the likes
I'm sick of ******* tinder
causing cheating every night
I'm sick of ******* eyebrows
like who ******* cares
when did we become so obsessed
with ******* forehead hair
I'm sick of religion
I'm sorry but it's true
it's caused so much division
in our red white and blue
I'm sick of trump supporters
who never read the news
they want to close our borders
but don't understand the ruse
I'm sick of fake people
who pretend for us all
cover their old selves in diesel
didn't hesitate or stall
I'm sick of Caitlin Jenner
she/he whatever isn't noble
committed ******* manslaughter
yet still remains boastful
I'm sick of post it note relationships
that last for three weeks
it's not a ******* battleship
just make the proper tweaks
I'm sick of all these hookups
it's become a culture
all of these pickups
initiated by the vultures
I'm sick of everyone caring
about what celebrities wear
I'm sick of overbearing hate
that never ever spares
I'm sick of all the judgment
of how a person looks
I'm sick of everyone watching YouTube
trading it for books
I'm sick of all this money
that we will never see
I'm sick of never knowing
what I'm supposed to do
I'm sick of schooling never showing
how to live our lives through
I'm sick of all this debt
that I'll be paying until my death
Im sick of feeling like our society is *******
but most of all I'm really sick
that this list has applied to me too.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
Teeth chatter and butts raise above seats,
Riding pickups atop the corduroy road,
Thunder claps of rubber bass beats,
Slapping the undercarriage's rusty odes.
The tires rhythmic riffs are risky,
Clavinet keys echo wood beams over muddy water,
Walter Murphy drinks a Fifth of Beethoven's whiskey,
Leaving superstitions for Stevie to Wander.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
(n) Ebenezer
1. Summer-Fall
The hands on the pews beaded in Summer sweat. The whiskey
whispers fall off the praising tongues of the Presbyterian choir
filling the sanctuary and beating at the stain glass windows
that a bird hit last week leaving a crack and when the congregation
saw it’s blooded feathers we said oh, dear and poor soul and then
climbed into our pickups and minivans and forgot and left to eat
a Sunday feast of Mexican food and rest, Sabbath naps are Biblical.
2. Winter-Spring
The robin rotted by November but the frost killed the ground too
soon for the bird to be laid to rest back beneath the protestant grass
and stones that the pastor claims are as powerful and rich of a blessing
as the stones the Jews of old inscribed with scripts wrought deep with
pleas for rescue and wails for salvation and scripted too with reminders
of trials and tribulations because trials end and Christ will reign so we drive
over the bones of robins and grass, tires kicking up our own Ebenezers.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
O Ye what are you waiting for?
Fly on the wings of hope,
This sky is waiting for you
The shadow is fed up of staying
Fly on fly on until you reach your goals
Obstacles are milestones to cross
Determination is a shield of dreams
Make courage your ally
Go past the mountains and valleys
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals
Start may look awkward
Initial hiccups will be pickups
You will master the art of killer instincts
Worries will evaporate with distinct
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals
Nothing is too big or small
The destination is giving you the call
If you fall, then rise up again
Show your back to the walls
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals
Time is waiting to salute you
History is waiting to write for you
Books are waiting to catch your story
Your name will find a place in the golden glory
You will be immortalized in everyone's memory
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 4:10 AM UTC
Some in my family say
Uncle Sam was my salvation
when I was a young man
hell, maybe so, I don’t know
but he kept me out of jail
and paid for my education
which is how I found myself
in West Memphis, Arkansas
surveying Indian mounds
that some fool professors thought
were put there by the Choctaw
but I knew they’d got it wrong
all along, it was the Mississippians
which makes perfect sense if you think
on it considering where they put ‘em
but I digress, I must confess it
was my fondness for backroad bars
and blues guitars carved from wood
of crosses burnt by drunks in hoods
and strings plucked by calloused fingers
of old men with shoulders slumped
like sagging barns and Ford pickups
you find out in them parts, singing
songs about long gone women, all
kinds of aching age old pains lingering
enough to make a man’s heart rain
until the US Army Corps of Engineers
blew the levy’s to send those tears
out across cotton fields and mounds
I know the Choctaw didn’t build.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 10:58 PM UTC
The old farmer hung back,
as rickety and battered as the
‘50s Allis-Chalmers tractor upon
which he leaned, hunched,
clung, as if the auctioneer's words
and the wind might carry him off
like the implements he'd treasured
much of his life, machines with
which he had toiled and sweated
and which had helped him chisel
out a meager existence in his
40 years on the farm. His wife was
dead now, his children scattered
like the clucking chickens and hissing
geese, all he had left were memories
and the old homestead, and it was
leaving him bit by bit on the backs
of creaking pickups and low boys
and stuffed into the cavities of shiny
new Cadillacs and Buicks. The cruel
wind had driven in from the southwest,
stealing a little more topsoil from the
threadbare farm, swirling and *******
at tattered curtains still hanging in
the mouths of grimy windows left ajar.
With each piece of his life leaving
down that gravel road, a draining
of his dreams and energies followed.
A few more raps of the gavel and he
too would be as dust in the wind.
--
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
You had two pet rabbits, one named Mickey the other Maurice,
who lived on lettuce bits and behind thin metal bars.
A caged environment set up on the study's wood floors,
with books and a red couch to keep company
and your mom, because she would finish her graphs and stats
on the mahogany desk living in the corner of the room
and she liked the rabbits purr and delicate noses
and would hold them and pet them
when she put down her pen and moleskin and accounts
because, although caged and bought at Pet World
in the strip mall across from Adult World
on the other side of Interstate 67, these rodents gave her comfort,
reminding her of Maine and Jonathan
who abstained from going and killing for sport
with his brothers when they went, in pickups
with buckshot and murdered deer and rabbits,
because she still missed Jon and bought these fluffy
white creatures for 47.99, a good deal,
and they came with a little rock house
that they could sleep and burrow under
like Jon and herself, snuggled in Maine,
away from Palo Alto. So every time I come over,
to have *** and eat dinner and listen
to what you learned to play on piano,
I stop by the study to see Maurice
and Mickey and feel the presence of Jonathan
and the sticky suburban sadness of your mother,
while keeping a secret promise close to my heart,
that I'll never become an accountant.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
If y'all were to go to Heaven
Y'all would be sent down to The South
In a little town called Texas
Where the tea is sweeter
Where chivalry still exists
Where we all drive muddy pickups
And dance in the rain in our cowboy boots
Where we all say howdy
And say ain't like it's not meant for over yonder
There isn't a single stranger in Texas
We all know each other
We are a tight knit town always waiting to give a lending hand
If we were to secede
The other states would miss us
There would be a big gaping hole on the map
The heart and the fist of The United States of America
We are Texans
You mess with one
You get the whole can of whoopass
We could be your worst nightmare
Or your best dream
Just don't talk smack from where I'm from
We will get on you with our whips and shotguns
We are Texans
We don't settle
And we don't keep calm
We are God- Fearin', Constituional- lovin', Gun- Bearin' Republicans.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
I was just five years old,
and Montana springs can be very cold.
It was time to go hunting for some
poor creature, men with rifles bold.
Off we trekked to the Bitterroot Valley.
A line of cars and pickups a mile long.
Hunting camp set up by the men first.
Then the women with bustle strong.
Daddy led me by the hand to a place
where the water was knee deep
to a giraffe...but I had rubber boots with
a yellow ducky, that never made a peep.
Suddenly adults were flying and crying,
running here and there in fearsome flight.
I did not understand what gave these folks
such a sudden and terribly awful fright.
Seems I stepped in a rattlesnake nest,
I thought they were cute little worms.
I wanted to get one for daddy’s fishing,
so I started to reach toward the squirms.
Now, baby rattlers can bite seriously,
but I had red boots with a yellow ducky,
and their furious little bites were not
able to bite, through boots...Lucky.
But those fingers reached out - well,
they were snatched by an aunt who wailed,
and no one told me why they were so tense,
to each other the story was detailed.
Innocent as lamb was I about those
reptiles that looked so cute and harmless.
I never knew my auntie had saved me
from being bitten and being armless.
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Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
I passed the homeless man again today
in the university library
He walked past me, and I
stood there, clutching myself
He wore a green striped shirt I wore the
other day, but it was wrinkled
I stared at the muted wall of foreign
television channels
you need headphones to feign comprehension
or imagine travel
I saw...
The Indians dance in brightly colored clothes
The South Americans advertise libido enhancers
and Europeans replay explosions in South-Western Asia
or watch soccer
Africa was just a dusty road with jeeps and pickups
and guns
I wore that wrinkled shirt I wore the other day
to the library
I walked past the 24 year old
watching the world go by
hugging himself
in this way that assures me
he, too,
knows loneliness
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
She smells like summer
And you sir smell like smoke
She smells of butterscotch and raspberries
You smell like a man who’s broke
And can’t afford to shower too often
You’re just a filthy ******* yes you
But it’s ok when she gives you a light
This beautiful cowgirl smokes too
She hands you a Marlborough Red
(Nothing But), and helps you understand Jack
She’s stitches you up when life plays rough
She’s straightening the crick in your back
So you can walk upright again,
Wow she says You are very brave
Let’s go down to the town and fit you out
Let’s go to Bradley’s Barber and get you a shave
All warm and smooth, all lathery
And a warm flannel on your face
I’ll give you a buttery kiss on the lips
If you’ll just pick up the pace
Us cow girls are strong ya know
We bail in the fields 9 til 3
But you’re a heavy thing
Guess we ain’t as strong as we used to be
But please don’t think that
We’re all lipstick and gloss
She begins to laugh softly
We ain’t afraid to go into the moss
And get our hands *****
No sir, it will never be that way
As long as there’s a Bud at the end
That will be the perfect sort of day
Do I have a suitor? Hahaha oh you
I think I scare them all out of town
I just like riding in old pickups
And watching the sun go down
From mama’s veranda on the porch
I will go honky-tonking all over town
But as much as I like a game of pool
I don’t need no man to hold me down
I just liking living in nature
And I like just living free
And if a guy can’t take that
Well that guy ain’t for me
There’ s a lot I want to see
There’s a lot I want to do
And do I need to be tied down?
No, said the old man, it’s true.
There’s very few women left
That think the way you do
Oh stop it she says, your flattery
It’s a nice try, but coffees are still on you.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 6:08 AM UTC
we earned our stripes
playing out on the road
in towns you won't find on the map
we play whatever
the crowd wants to hear
and one time we even played taps
yeah taps...that's right
one time we even played taps
played a bar last night
real funky place
the backroom was also the jail
you got drunk on one side
then they'd lock you up
and you could pay the bartender your bail
yep...you could pay the bartender your bail
The towns that we play in
Aren't really that big
What most call a forest
The band calls a twig
we play country music
we can knock off a jig
but to call us that famous
is like kissing a pig
we've got two pickups
an suv too
and a minivan rusted to bits
we play rock paper scissors
to see who drives where
then we pack up and hope it all fits
yep...most nights we hope it all fits
we play behind wire
in some places we go
it stops the bottle from hitting the drums
we asked the bartender
if he thought we should leave
he said you do....next they'll all pull out their guns
yep...everyone there all had guns
The towns that we play in
Aren't really that big
What most call a forest
The band calls a twig
we play country music
we can knock off a jig
but to call us that famous
is like kissing a pig
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Gentle muzzle
velvet soft
lipping at my palm
searching for the treats,
sugar and molasses
a rich combination
only a good horse
earns.
Supple leather
worn smooth
over years of dedication
and application
that comes from
this sport.
Nights
already promised ahead of time,
three months earlier,
hauling to deserted fairgrounds
a dusky sky setting the tone
for lead ropes
threaded
through stock trailer slats
cow dogs
running
up down sideways
trailing owners between horses legs and rusty pickups.
Tacking up
underneath floodlights
set to the soundtrack
of jangling spurs
and soft nickers.
Younger kids
hanging on the arena rails
drinking syrupy sweet
soda
a tradition
root beers before your run
good luck
in our community.
Foot in the stirrup
old braided reins in hand
leather,
broken into submission,
pliable
under years
of use.
Slapping hands
with other riders
who already went
horses,
slick with sweat
foaming at the mouth
ready to go again
with rippling muscles
still taunt in the sticky summer night,
aching for one last run.
three turns
and a gallop home,
don't care about the money
unless you beat your last time-
your only competitor
is
yourself
and
the
clock.
Hard packed dirt
pounded down by hooves,
tails swishing at flies
as you wait
for your turn.
Adrenaline and happiness,
an addictive cocktail,
these are the nights
I
love.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
Bleary, dreary bifocals looked out through seeing eyes. At the maze of apiculture before him. He pushed a cart his whole life, never stepping up on the ledge to ride it.
Every Tuesday night, his fist packed tight full of ones. Uncrumbling, Washington from his back pocketed jeans. He'd lay him out flat, on the desk, like I should be impressed. One pack of cigs please.
He'd take his cart, around the world & back. Show kaleidoscope girls a good time. Because no matter how pretty that **** picture was, no matter how many times you tore it a part...it was always ugly. Just like the make up, that caked up the beauty on her face.
Parking lot pickups, corner cat-calls, was all she would be worth, a penny in the gutter, if she was lucky. Face up, grasped by hands that'll never love her. Such a steep price, for such a cheap use of love. Generic.
He tells them, he loves them as his boots slide on, comfortable. Too much in a hurry to take his socks off. Humming, Spin Doctors under his breath. He breaths heavily, like he worked so hard that day.
She holds onto morales like lose change, change is lose when you're use, to anything. That shows up on the corners on a Tuesday night, with something new to ignite. Not just the ciggerate between his lips. Lion skin, hipocrathy.
I lay the bills neatly in the drawr, wondering what price he really pays for the stress to relieve his mind. What price does the girl pay, how many clinics does she visit in a year. Baby girl YOUR NOT AN ACCIDENT, YOUR WORTH MORE THAN THE WORDS THAT HIT YOUR CHEEK LIKE A SLAP YOU HAVE MORE POTENTIAL THAN THE MEN YOU LET COMFORT YOU INTO THIS ABUSIVE SOLIDTUDE. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL, I WOULD SPEND EVERY CENT I HAD JUST TO SIT & TALK WITH YOU.
**Luke 7:47
"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”"**
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
It was a time of mad irreverence, of lawless bedlam
When the shackles which bound our restless souls
To the tiny wooden cells
where we worked on the arithmetic chain gang
watched by the warden of words and numbers,
she who ruled that house of order with an iron fist and a wooden ruler
were stuck off, and lost all hold on us
It was freedom, and it burnt hot and wild in our veins,
the heat perhaps intensified
by the sweltering oven the sun made of every inch of unshaded ground
In the feverish, mad world of summer, we were kings
We ruled, and laughed at those who would rule us
Foolish, reckless dangerous, unstoppable, crazy, free,
Young
Untamed, shameless, we ran in droves
And the clamoring, thunderous roar of laden pickups
Music and laughter spilling out of the windows
Seats stuffed full of hormones and hedonism
Dominated every lonesome dirt road in all of Arizona
We drank and smoked and swam in a sea of uninhibited adolescence
And then it was over, and we went back to our chains.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Sorghum syrup , sold just off the National-
highway
Boiled peanuts , pecan divinity
Period pickups , gas fired grills and turkey cookers
Busy , rugged maple rockers , curious roadside onlookers
Store clerk dragging a Salem , orange vested
hunters with a fresh deer ****
Restaurant trailers with hot dog , cheeseburger-
entrees , malt shakes and fried dill pickles
Big rigs on break in cracked asphalt , brown grass-
jungles
Dusk , closing down a rural exit ramp
A tiny town barely on the map ...
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Melted snow and dusty streets.
You and I had to stop.
We’re drawn to places
of power, like roadside
attractions. No matter how
cheap or quaint they seem,
they’re free of cliches.
Here it was, a shrine to
Route 66--even if it was
just a ***** painted banner
on a faded tan brick
gas station wall:
“LAST TOWN BYPASSED
BY I-40 ROUTE 66
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
OCTOBER 13, 1984.”
You parked the rented car
on broken pavement.
You had to stop and take a
picture under the sign and
between the parked Sequoia
and mud-covered pickups.
You don’t know to
pray, but you know how
to pay attention,
how to halt and idle
in the exhaust of diesel fuel.
Really, what else should you
have done? Doesn’t everything
disappear too soon? What door
will you open now that your
sacred window is closing?
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
I'm a small town girl but I still got a heart.
I'm gorgeous so why I can't you write me a poem?
I attract blue collar workers looking for cheap dating.
I get the ones driving pickups who want a front seat quickie.
Did it a few times but it left me feeling cheap.
Felt like dirt after he drop me on curb when we got done.
No kiss good night no I'll call you no nothing.
Hate hearing from men same old stuff like
Hello honey want a beer?
A beer? *** I'm wearing a nice dress and heels.
Maybe I can't afford to shop at Neiman Marcus
but I'm still very gorgeous!
Maybe I never ate caviar or drank high tea
whatever the hell high tea is.
Does that make me not as good as the one you call gorgeous?
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Bar Pickups
She had been riding pleasurably
For over fifteen minutes
And she kept asking for more
She kept making me hold back
But I couldn’t find much passion
In the eternity of fake moans
She was moving around on top of me
Head back
Yelling from a real moan
“Not yet! Not yet!”
All while routinely taking all of me
I pretended to be at a lost
And prematurely out of control
“Oh, baby, it’s good, it’s good”
And erupted
******* she said. “I was almost there”
She had also said that about fifteen minutes before
“But don’t take it out though”
She was so wet with an open invitation
That it slide out by itself
She took my pride
And held up my limpness
Like a piece of meat
Before she slung it
Against my inner thigh
Poured herself another drink
And asked between sips
“How long will it take?”
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Self professed trees surgeons , insurance agents , water damage "consultants ! " Jack leg carpenters , news crews , would be electricians , handymen and " rubber neckers ! " The fly into town , apparently in the first wave of the storms ferocious winds , perusing potential customers for quick cash , price gouging courtesy of shade tree operators ! They stand by their brand new gas gulping pickups , smiling and self absorbed like they're doing you a favor ! If it wasn't for the tornado scattering my possessions , I would fire rock salt directly into your *** without reservation ! This may seem like a " backward Hick town " with thick southern accents , old pickups and overalls ! Your true intent is quickly visible , your " modus operandi " is quite evident , if your still here at Dusk kind Sir , may your God be with you !
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
In this world I suspect everything
has its importance
I live in a southern town
an area well sown with secrets
Full of gold stars and hard badges
Full of litter on the backroads
where pickups back up and push
old things downhill
I live in my skin like a nice woman
I dab my lips in the humidity
From sea to shining sea
I watch from the shelter of a chickadee
All the roads are repaved but I sense
dirt roads reddened underneath
I am careful of my culture
lush and drunken with magnolia
softly cold and beautiful in Winter
I sit on a wooden bridge and swing
my legs in slow motion
The waters below dazzle tricks of light
I dream of finding another cautious soul
Naturally friendly I wave at God
in his better world
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC