TequilaWalking on the beach,first time on the sandsince reconstruction,hand-in-hand withmy destruction.Mom would be so proud:no training wheels.
Maggot BrainedListening to "Summertime" byJanis Joplin, I do thecutest thing: I hold myselfhostage as I re-enactscenes from the past few days.I need to purge my mind,but I have no means tocleanse my palette. So Iloop the recording, hopingJames Gurley can piercesomething vital and leave merenewed. He doesn't, butnot for lack of trying.I switch to Eddie Hazel,which makes me pause."Play like yo' momma just died."Thank you, thank you.I have, as usual, onlymanaged to make things worse.
Untitled 3-19-2010The blood seeks rhythm,the heart seeks groove,the soul seeks fat bassto make my fingers move.Poetry made fluid intomelody so sublime,waves of emotion crashin and out, always on time.Blood seeps through pores,bearing memory as it leaks.Strip away flesh and bone,pure essence pulsing to the beat.
With Nothing left to BurnOver years and miles I haveset myself in stoneif only to prevent my perpetualbridge burning from catchingme off guard, from behind.The cinders and emberswarm my heart,or what ravaged bits remain.Despite my cynical stonefacade, I know that's a lie.Regardless, I press on.The heat propels meinto the cold distance.I embrace the chillwithout backward glance.