The writing is not advancing, but you still slip into my mind like a chauffeur who drives only in reverse while blindfolded.
Naked in your screaming passivity which has nothing whatsoever to do with passive aggression or the rigors of standing tall in such a small world.
We stood beneath the waterfall, oh wait that wasn’t you, but if it had been I know the outcome wouldn’t have been so dark or fraught with danger.
My eyes are trained on you like a rifle scope that breeds contempt because it’s the American way.
Some will find that last line to be a threat which is complete and utter BS because as threats go I’m not one to be so openly violent even though the claw marks on my forehead tell a different story.
I love this place I discover myself in where only words course through my veins and your muse visits with infinite possibilities.
Your voice slices through my chain link desolation and whispers sweet nothings into ears I don’t use nearly enough.
This jigsaw puzzle escapism rallies around my dead soul as it attempts reviving a burned out star.
I cupped your breasts in my dirty hands and would have apologized for my filth, but I was pretty certain you didn’t mind my mechanic hands as long as they were fruitful and multiplied.
Writing exists over there while I stand apart from my endless attempts to write the great American poem or at the very least not shit the bed.
Clothes only get in our way as we stop, drop and listen to the whippoorwill suffering of another dead drunk country singer.
I oftentimes surprise myself when writing for you Kat because you allow me to be Charlie and that is so freeing in these days of cloudburst patriotism.
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