from salty tides of life
lately I've been sipping.
work is flat calm bayside.
all those million humped oceans
are behind and beyond.
wellsprings of fever pitch
and wild discovery are over
hills not wandered
for decade or so.
long gone rivers of sweetwater
come sneaking back
as pieces of rain.
beaches where waves only lap
instead of crash do fine.
these days I surf in clouds.
life's a damn james
waste of rad toy if you ask me.
freaking silver spyder slipped stupidly.
I knew a white '58 coupe reuter body. sleek,
with enough horsepower to fool ya in the twitches.
damn james, she was under your foot, in your h
she was crying your name in fever pitch rpm's and gushing.
she'd do anything for you with just a bare hairtrigger touch.
she was loaded with the bullets of you, james. held to head.
you were the lone ranger driving your own silver bullet, james.
you were wearing your silverscreen mask you stupid bastard,
had fooled yourself into a movie of yourself that didn't fly
and were mistaken in that last no second take moment - james.
damn, Dean. that was a weak last scene.
new clear cobalt blues
from soothe of sunrise
death grip undertows
suck indigo din
spun aqua whirlpools
tween dives of azure
off cliffs of sapphire
with geronimo calls
in key of cobalt blues
caves of trees
wood squared and painted
ponder forests, eh
bondaged by wires