Whose Site

You had good bones
Such good bones, boy

It’s that thought that found me
When you found me, boy

So I let you stay a while, sit a spell
Set a spell on me, boy

Marksman, Sharpshooter, Expert
Shoot, boy

You took aim
You took me, boy

Set your sights
But whose site is this anyway, boy

That needy, narcissistic arrow
Was not the way I needed you, boy


Be careful, Wildman
I’ll be forced to speak
A hello from my lips
You’ll be forced to hear
A smite upon your charm
Reminding these merged minds
That you strolled away
Your big words failed a love
Your wielded strength a boon
For broken hearts and homes

Original Thought Credit: “…they should’ve behaved better.” -Anne Lamott

Good Guy

Ode to the bastard, or the cunning, if you will

Blame the constructively or actually absent father, the sons-of-empathyless-bitches must

And blame you too

You were late with their meal, or delivered it differently than what they’d had in mind but hadn’t shared aloud

Or had shared aloud, then in silent switched

Oh, heart-breaker, home-wrecker, save…SAVE your own life

Sell this soul as your own

Permission to abandon ship, grant thyself

Empty arms now jocular and free

Original Thought Credit: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.” -Anne Lamott

golden cowboy

Know that you own the tongue that has made a world flat

With each word, placed its heart at once under your boots 

Chicken-walk on the doormat, “Do some-thing with your mess.”

Close the door, then deny you’d been outside that Day