when i have nothing more to say,
i stare at a drink,
where speech mixes
with a smoker’s cough.
nevertheless, the crew is here
to provide relief.
these poor brutes
would never make it
upon this slate.
it’s a small price to pay
while in a state of limbo.
this sap chap
is indulging in the wine
with the mistress of muse,
where she clickity clicks
in her high top boots
with a wild heart
underneath a street lamp
in her everyday stone washed jeans.
she taps me on the shoulder,
“get to writing ya …ya drunken slush!”
i say, “well slush funds for a bum
sometime takes time to develop
in the lines of political bribery!”
but as it goes,
it’s another rag tag –
get to leaving another political stunt
out of the bag
in this rag time song.
between a barmaid and poet
in the high tide blue lustre evening
on a patio deck surrounded by flowers
taking in the dips of the sky,
where the sunset reaches and delivers.
draws in – draws out in convo,
as if both of us were slashes of light.
i rub my fingers
upon the cross around my neck,
as if it was a lucky charm,
sippin’ into beauty and passion,
as a soldier dreamer,
kickin’ dust up again,
in the crossfires
with a group of mob expressions,
serving loyalty to art –
in a gotta be someplace,
casting eyes to a goddess,
to find pleasure,
even if forever passing away
to an allegiance
that keeps me afloat in life.
the rust on the corn belt,
compell’s good news
of punishing faith
in glowing justice,
triumphantly in the undergrounds,
blooming gardens so supreme.
1. this is the key
that ya make me see,
to check out
from this hotel
after knockin’ on this door,
to take a trip
down a memory trail mix,
in the rhythmics
of life’s kicks.
chorus:
ya got me fallin’
next to this guitar
leavin’ this song.
2. give me what ya got,
to hit this spot,
with leavin’ candles burnin’
in these rundown hotel windows
of this early mornin’
catchin’ a rainbow
cuz cuz i’m carryin’ your hangover
in the hangouts
of your whereabouts
in a pop country crush.
chorus:
ya got me fallin’
next to this guitar
leavin’ this song.
hey girl –
it’s a flirtation,
in the surrender
of the s&p index,
from erie to la
on summertime decks
in the counter fits
of cornhole games,
leaving a fix
in the usual politics,
serving up ther drinks,
for a bunch of sore losers,
like an old harpster,
jamming in the strings
from a dust covered guitar,
with another send off,
in a sneak kiss,
in a long lost –
stuck in the mud-
to seize a buck,
in this shake it down,
bandit in this town.
