there’s a cowboy at the corner store
a showgirl in his truck
he’s dusty from the trail
she’s covered in stale glitter
I can think of six stories
and two limericks
right away
but catching his sad eyes
and her vacuous gaze at the horizon
I reckon on leaving their story
just a picture in my mind
the press
falling somewhere between needing a winch or a ratchet
to get out of bed and hurl my thoughts to the ether
lining up the letters on the iron press
hands sticky and stained with ink
did Ben Franklin realize the eventual turn of publishing
would turn to posting inane chatter and horny thoughts
and silly pet pictures and pithy quotes
and where was I going with my hammer
what I really need is a shovel or a spade
to bury myself deep within you
and if hardware and tools aren’t sexy enough
next time I’ll try sugar and fairy dust
can’t let go of skin
just let go
hearing that chanted
from the ivory tower dwellers
irked me to no end
no end in sight
for either I fell into struggles
or created them
how do I let go of my skin
the words sunk in so long ago
they only seemed to fade
with the bruises
but they’re all still there
in one mangled heap
unclaimed but not forgotten
when I let go, it will end
but I have more to say first
Dancing Days
from a slow slide soft shoe
to a terrific twirl
he moved
be-bopping to a hidden beat
tumbling to his soul’s rumble
his body sang
swaying and sweating smoothly
arching aches away
he danced
jangling with history
dazzling with new dreams
he seduced
finding his voice
telling his tales
he tapped
words in the wind
whether long or short
the wind takes my words away
leaving me bereft
The Word Rummager 