GRANDPA

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With his brittle bones

and his sun cracked face

he rode near ‘bout every mile

of the round-up trail.

 

He licks the wind

and stares out at nothing

tobacco dripping lip, spits.

Hell, I fought the sun,

and I won

fought a sneakin’ coyote once,

he lost.

Broke rattlesnakes in half

between bare hands.

Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too.

 

Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert

never have I thirst, so much

for one wet drop.

They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass.

Eighteen-ninety-seven,

that was my last long ride.

Too many damn city boys

tryin’ to run the drive.

 

And now my grandson drives off

in that noisy pick-up.

He’ll never know the dry taste

of sand and grainy dust

between your teeth.

Wind kicking in your face

like a thousand angry hoofs

punched in your mouth.

 

And my friend,

cold black night.

 

Damn all this fancy fiddle.

COAL MINER

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The twisted wreckage of your dreams
haunts all my waking hours.

I pick up my weary baggage
and silently walk toward the end
of a drought worn stream.

Your voice is flat and hollow
no longer does your music move me
but in the deathly dusk of the fallen sun
your tears shine in a sparkle of diamonds.

MARCY’S OVERCOAT

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It sits staring at me.
Sprawling, cozy and secure
in its own private space
on my cushy black leather couch.

I won’t dare touch it.
Marcy’s overcoat
tan and tailored
like Bogart, Sherlock Holmes or Columbo
well, maybe not Columbo.
They all wore one
every cloak and dagger
the British had to have them.
All that damn rain
and a good place to hide a gun
during a war.

This one is Marcy’s.
No wrinkles, no stains
only the scent of her exotic cologne
from a small shop in Paris
so one of a kind.

Strands of her long, shining blonde curls cling
beaming her surrendering smile
and squeaky siren laugh.
Her petite sexy body
is a firecracker in July
kindled to burn the passion
to the tips of your fingers
moving rapid fire through your body
and charring to the core.

Sadly, she won’t return for it.
She is like that, Marcy.
Always gets everything she wants.
A first time, good time, every time
graciously letting everything fall behind her
as if she had a royal consort on her heels
every minute of every day
picking up all of her discarded victories
then suddenly, as always
transformed to total failures.

Not me, though
but her overcoat, for sure.

THE MACHINE KILLED CREATIVITY

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The machine killed creativity.
I saw it for myself.
It bludgeoned all artistic strides
and massacred the rest.

Musicians first, were bound to atoms
then cast down to synthesize.
Pouncing notes on wired keyboards
for light waves to analyze.

Painters great, were also slaughtered
by brushes of true bits.
Destined for their graphic tabs
and bland electric teats.

Sculptors once again were chained
by circuit boards and digits
building funky little trites
of solder, wire, and widgets.

Writers were then gathered up
and tortured by their software
making acronym of literature
while cleansing hard drives bare.

Movie folks were also brandished
and scattered without vision
destined for the rerun click
from the mouse of indecision.

Poets, whom of course were last
bore out the worst derision
they were left with but a hint
of electric mysticism.

The machine killed creativity.
It will show you no remorse.
Keep your wafers powered up
to wait the next resurgent force.

 

RIVETS AND BUNS (A War Story of Love)

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Her soft hands
warmly knead my flour
a precious cargo
booming to land another flawless mission.

To Paris on her smell.

He doesn’t feel the final rivet snap
blooming foreskin
shielding the butt tip of his cockpit
as it rips apart
on his final approach
to her runway.

He smells the Paris of her hands baking.

MOVING PICTURES

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You have always been a movie to me
knowing I could never touch you.
Now you sit and stare at me
from the other side of a bottle
on this table here between us.

I feel as if the magic is missing
you are not the star I dreamed of.
Once you were my shining light
in a dreaming heaven
of a momentary wish.

Now I see what I am left with
is not what I had hoped for.
And I see what I am watching
is not what I enjoyed.

You have always been a movie to me,
and now my life plays in reverse.
I never could quite touch you
and now I know.
I’ve touched too much.

 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER COMMUNION

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They run like colts
in river beds of solid wines
flicking whatever berries

at each other
or something.

They both understand the language
wondering with each other.
Laughing,
and knowing

when they hurt each other.

Suffering for each others pain
and crying
because they dance

in each others rain.