He was a modern Will James, in a faded blue suit coat hanging from broad shoulders and a slender frame. He wore a tie under the collar of his white button down tucked into brand new Wranglers. What Will James could do with a pen this boy could do with a guitar – picking them old cowboy songs and singing with that husky tone that could send chills over any girl’s skin. He held authority in his easy going way with a face that let no unchecked emotion show. As the night wore on he led her to the dance floor to glide across the wooden planks pulling her ever closer as they danced. She was falling in love with a buckaroo – who could only love the wilds of Nevada. And she knew he would never love her. For one night she could feel the caress of his hand and the warmth of his lips. She could watch the cigarette smoke escape to dissolve in the cold Montana air as they sat on the stone steps. He was a modern Will James, in a faded blue suit coat and a flat top hat, that cigarette tilted off his lips and his blue eyes entrancing her under the yellow streetlights.
Photo Credit: Creative Commons
In the end, we are a wisp:
A leaf upon the current, but ever closer
to the ground, The steam dissipating into air, the dying
light on the valley as the mountain blocks the glare.
we are a moon flower closing slowly
as morning finds it’s lair: A long slow breath
sucked in, and it’s held
for eternity there. We are footprints in the snow, drawings
in the sand. We are earth bound and bound
for the ground. We are a whisper
in the wind quickly snatched away: A rain drop from the clouds
that never hold one shape. We exist only to be
these sudden fleeting things. Life last no longer
than a matches flame. The only thing we trust
to survive the earthen chains is the soul
we guard from devilish things. So if you ask if I believe
in God, it will seem like a silly inquisition. If we believe in nothing
then our soul isn’t living. With a body chained
and bound it’s our soul that frees us from the ground.
Turn the knob with the letter H in bold red a turn and a half
Turn the knob with a letter C in bold blue only one turn.
The following water temperature will steam the glass.
It’ll sting on cold skin and ease Goosebumps too.
Oh, the healing qualities of this watery flume.
You will want to remain there for hours, but the heat won’t continue.
The hot water heater only lasts minutes: about thirty-one or thirty-two.
Enjoy it while you can. For it relieves other ailments too.
Stress might wash away in the form of dirty nail beds
Or disheveled hair on your head.
It might cure sleepiness or cause it to ensue.
Oh, the comfort in this everyday task.
Once done just turn the knob with H in bold red a turn and a half
And the knob with a bold blue C only one turn. The water will STOP.
And. You. Will.
All I smell is cigarettes,
And the sound of the tracks
Against metal wheels racking against the whiskey in my blood.
It’s a midnight train to nowhere full of beggars and thieves,
As society would have everyone believe.
I am known only by association.
Which label should I be?
The pickup starts slow. She cranks over, but she’s a little cold. I probably should get that battery checked, but she keeps cranking so once again I let it go – until another day. She comes to life with a breathy roar telling me she didn’t want to start today, but she’s a trusted thing and has always got me from place to place. She growls for a few minutes more before settling into a quiet purr. As I drive there’s a cup of coffee set between my legs. It’s strong and hot and spiked, of course. For the most part, I drink it black but today I added chocolate and peppermint. The winter wind crept in last night while I slept in my bed, tucked in under a million blankets covering even my face. I daydream about my bed on these cold and wintery days.
I write on two occasions: when it’s cold and when I’m troubled. In the summer, I hardly sit still long enough to write, and when I’m happy no words come to mind. But when it’s cold, when your breath comes out in tangible frosted puffs as if exhaling smoke from a wintry cigar, I feel alive. My body works harder to keep my heart warm, but my heart prefers the cold. Something about that internal struggle between a heart that craves the cold, but needs the warmth to keep beating frees the words within my mind; to swirl out into the world as tangible as the breath that escapes my parted lips.
A little Texas country singing ‘bout dirt road miles, tan lines, and feeling free, has got us swinging round to the beat, spinning around this big dance floor. The end of the song leaves us wantin’ more – as the band strums up another tune we all fall into twos just spinnin’ around, swingin’ round this ‘ol dance floor.
You will never know one like her: not before, not after. She’s more timeless than a Zane Grey novel, and more fire than a wood pallet bonfire on a Saturday night. It’s the sunrises and sunsets that reflect in her smile, and a Randy Rogers concert gets her excited for a while. She speaks a little less than most girls you have run into, but challenge her wit and she’ll turn it back on you. She’ll shoot tequila straight but prefers the lime, and whiskey waters will keep her feeling fine. It’s the crispness of the morning and a colt’s long trot, or a little trout fishing when the days are hot; that’s what makes her fall in love. She can do her hair up and paint her lips red, and every man she passes will be turning their head. Yet, on any other day she’s got her feet on the ground with her hair pulled back and her face tanned brown. She’s got her shit together and she doesn’t need you, but if you’re mighty lucky, you can show her a thing or two.
A woman is the wind. Fickle in a way.
Changing directions often. In one, straight line – she won’t stay.
She’s a force to reckon with til the end of every day.
And right at dusk when the evening breeze begins to play.
It will be her, caressing your face. Tenderly, as if caring for a child, or sweetly like a lover tempting fate.