taut-stretched languid days spent on long-love, songs,
sigh-drawn fingers and well travel skin.
I miss most those storm-sodden days,
spent bundled up, two against that relentless gray.
But I’d rather craft craftless tales and piece-meal poems,
I’d rather indulge in fantasy than *have* adventure.
In my dreams I die content and
alone,
and if Missouri is any indication,
I’ve got it. Right.
and that too grim part of me wonders if their wives notice that tear-gas smell as they fuck them silent in the night,
or if they bother going home at all.
In my dreams, I die content, and alone.
far, far away from those old family restaurants,
those towns that only live by high-way strip,
places with too much long for the long dead west,
for the forever myth.
and I find it hard for the long-love when the world’s bursting at all the wrong seams,
it ain’t that there ain’t desire,
but god, god them fires.
when I am old and broken children will ask me how they licked,
and I hope to god they won’t understand.
and I, I won’t either.
