I took my midnight special out, ran my leather-ed hand down her spine,
only the prophets can help me now.
My iron-on universe,
prodding a fitful sleep.
And, leaving me feeling a little bit cursed.
With a well traveled handle in my hand…
a cursory breathe
and gentle wisps of air…from a cynical ceiling fan,
I make my big plan.
In deep rumination,
an ‘I’m only human’ thought-
‘…have I lost my barefoot way?’
Swollen to the ground like a brick of cement.
Could this just be, a bit of heaven sent.
Half pass the hour, I feel all the more sour.
But still, a collection of my voices say,
‘…this is no time to resist the unfamiliar.
To live is to hang dirty laundry among the ghettos of your mind.’
Indeed, hidden in the cracker jack treasure…
the trigger I did find.
So I pawned another hours sleep.
Opened the sweet smell of ancient script.
Found bullets of words with courageous curves.
Held hostage by ideals that shoot from the hip.