Smoker 37

Cold hands. More specifically
cold fingertips.  Cut out to California.
Low sunsets and vino and long drives.
Cut out to Great Lakes and oh Canada.
Cut out to Florida and swamp and fauna.

Territory.  Cold hands and cold fingertips.
Armor up.  Cans and fire and goodies.

Chiefing.  Cause for concern. Cloud
voice.  All in a handshake.  No kings, no queens,
just seams.

Dear God, Walk With Me For a Minute

Hold my hand, baby please.
Your skin
against.

Battle with me.  Course the skys and
maybe we can cheers on the weekends.

Bumpers and junk.  I'm okay with that.
Trying to get back where, you know.  Ya kno?

Different ways.  I know I'm not a kid or a kid at heart,
but could you hold my hand?

I don't want it, I need it.  It's been hard.  Difficulty comes
when I expect least

and the seasons are changing and I looked both ways
so please, hold my goddamn hand

while my other peels and eats an orange
and it goes down my shirt.

Gun Metal

Shooting yourself in the face is a lie
told several times over, I know I'm shy, but

everything comes to a head some days
and everyone has to find their own ways and

painting pictures with the side of your brain
no way to begin to explain that

sometimes you need it on the wall
twelve gauge telling you, that you can stop it all

you can stop the voices and make you moose,
you can horn it up and take that choose

the out is there, sitting behind your head
close the books and let her fly

close conversations and take a skip.
To have it and taste and play.  That's all.

Feel the deck beneath the liner,
the Great Lakes and be the ship.

Some people need body pillows.
Some people need focus.

Some people need a magic word
or machine and metal and a little hocus.

Horse Blinders

Chomping at the bit.  Chomping at the bit.  Chomping at the bit.

I howl.  I can't fix it.  But I can change.  No, seriously.

I howl.  I want something else to it.  There isn't.

Stay alert.