V. 2, #4: March 31, 2013

Hey, pardner! You--the one with mutton chops!
The lady said get lost, so let it pass.
Don't make me come down there and kick your ass!
Somebody's sure to freak and call the cops,

And neither of us needs that--least 'ways you.
(I figure you're no stranger to the law.)
So if you like the way God made your jaw
fit in its place, take my advice: go screw.

There's always one like you, can't let it be:
some rooster thinks his tail's the best in town,
till some other old cock spurs him right down
to blood and feathers. Friend, that cock is me.

That's what I thought. See, darlin'? He's all show.
Could I buy you--goddammit, where'd she go? 

 

V. 2, #3: March 30, 2013

Now and again, a sudden shift of clouds
will let a little sunshine in to chase
the shadows from the dusty attic shrouds
that cover up my memory of your face.

I pull the sheets away, and there you lie--
so still, perfectly frozen in my mind;
Love in your smile, and mischief in the eye
that long ago to me turned cold and blind.

There was a time our days were filled with light,
and all our nights with passion, heat, and cheer;
But now it's just this half-remembered sight
of you, preserved but fading, year by year.

And I, curator to lost love and lust,
pull up the sheets to save you from the dust.

 

V. 2, #2: March 29, 2013

The aliens aint' comin'. If they was,
I figure they'd of been in touch by now.
No circled crops, no mutilated cow,
no colored lights at night, nor eerie buzz.

The lines I chalked out back, straight as a rail,
to help them land their ships, done blown away.
And if them E.T.'s got something to say,
my dish ain't picked it up. The grade is "fail."

I thought they'd come. I scrimped and saved and planned
for when they'd liberate me from this dirt,
where everything is hate, and fear, and hurt,
and nothing good can be allowed to stand.

But now I know I'm stuck here, just like you.
I don't know what in hell I'm gonna do.

 

V. 2, #1: March 28, 2013

I feel like I've been powerless for years,
Or optionless, which comes out just the same.
All rooted in routine, stock still with fears,
Till choice is even less now than a name.

I've let the things I loved go slipping though
My grasp, like water held in shaking hands;
The days pass into months, and nothing's new.
And nobody I talk to understands.

I don't know if I've been dead, or asleep--
If waking resurrection's on the card
Or not. I just know things I thought I'd keep
Have disappeared, and finding them is hard.

I'm searching, though. It's tiresome and it's tough,
But something has to change. Today. Enough.