the view from where i currently sit

being a bard is words flowing out of you in instants
"child you fit like my oldest pair of pants."
Comfortably

maybe the vices and their devious spiderweb ways captured in the hairs on the back of our necks
romantic thrills chilling to the bone
cactus fires under the cold sweat blanket of New Mexico's moons, above and reflected
to use both sides of the paper

vices raw and fulfilling, torturous, climactic
the sweet release of sunlight off porch floorboards speckled with laughter over spilt wine, sky streams, jet lines, crossing state lines
the background music of our lives

Puzzles are prepackaged and come with all the pieces
you put it together
now, how often do you find, in the end, a piece is missing?

to finally find a line to store your memories of what sounds like 2000 bees and the vibrating air beside them, their humming waves of pollen
or the voice of a tiny mosquito in yer ear singing with a violin wing accompaniment

Tripping over bottles and words on the way up, falling into love then walking out the door leaving it open for the wind,
maybe whispers or scents will curl up your skin every goose bump reminding you of a different dance move
realizing your ear's still bleeding from the change in altitude and you think about how it'll effect the notes from a flute so you sit straight up in the spine, chest out soul first with yer heart on yer sleeve and a gun in yer purse, a bottle of red glued to the hand at yer hip, a cigarette lit, bare feet to the ground and a riddles wit,
to pass through time
making words rhyme with themselves