On the roadside near the fence, a long-legged silhouette,
a wide brimmed Stetson hat.
He waves his hand and comments, can I bum a cigarette?
I’ve been longing for one for days.

You see, my friend, I got stranded and abandoned by my love.
She kicked me out and drove off.
For a nickel and a dime they change their mind. Women.
He said and grinned.

Mister, where you headed, I don’t care where you been
These blisters on my feet are in need of some relief
Would you be so kind — can I hitch a ride?
I got stories to tell and an ear to confide

Hop on in, I said to my friend. As long as you’re not the devil,
you can be my guest.
This train keeps a-rollin, and going, until there’s no tracks left.
And off we went.

--

--

With sore eyes I watch the bright evening sun descend in the west.
Lately the afternoons have been hot and merciless and the nights are barely long enough for the warmth to dissipate.

The past several days irritating amounts of sweat and dust have slowly started to accumulate onto my skin due to the inability to wash,
and the overall absence of water.

I sit down and rest my head against a stubby willow trunk.
My mind wanders off and I suddenly remember how my father used to tell me “The worst part of suffering is believing you do”.

While I peel the flaky burnt-skin remains of my hands his credo resonates through my head. Grinningly I fall asleep.

--

--

A paperless form, sold to be torn
Promises of words that could be
The picture it portrays seems persuasive
It’s colors are vivid and clear

The truth wants to be known
Like a meandering river it flows
through shallow depths and meadows
From peak to valley it merges into sea, eventually

The ticket I hold
the one that you sold
starts to soften and crease from unfolding
Ever so I know,
time will iron out wrinkles and doubts

--

--

Goosebumps crawl up my arm while the sun slowly descends in the late afternoon. I light another cigarette.

With flowers and hope I wait while my mind wanders away.
The clock ticks on.

Every minute the sky turns into a darker shade of blue.
Noises on the street slowly fade.

Yet things had never been so clear.

--

--

Boomerang Art

The choices he made, some good, some bad, some too ugly to tell.
Art would drink ten whiskey without a flinch and another five without a blink. He’d tell you stories that would almost make you believe that he lived more than just one life. Like three.

Every next day when the sun arises, a certain emptiness strikes Art, like the hammer hits of his hangover. The minefield of bad choices are catching up with him as he solitarily lives in his empire of disarray.

A repetitive time lapse that keeps on bouncing back like a boomerang.
A high, a low.
In the end nothing but the tale of yesterday remains.

--

--

The 1:15 to Paris

Sitting in the train with a twenty-five minute delay.

The rain drops drip from the cabin window while the pointers on my watch seem to tick slower every minute.

A friendly woman’s voice tries to comfort the passengers with a frequent announcement over the the crackling intercom speakers.

A fast looking man in the seat in front of me sighs hard and loud,
the old woman next to me closes her eyes with a smile wide and proud.

Time ticks away, as does the rain.

--

--