He's become comfortable
in that
ol' civil war jacket.
What would compliment
that mess of hair?
A sage cigarette,
a bottle in his hand
and a book in his pocket.
A hobo at heart
a drunk by night
and a rambling pain.
Tired and old
before his time.
Studying the greats
Bukowski, Tom Waits
William S. Burroughs
and Hunter S. Thompson,
Kerouac and John Steinbeck.
Drinking Brandy
and Cockspur rum
from the bottle.
Hiding down South
for the winter months
running from the cold
and consequence.
2 comments:
don't worry about leaving a little room for despair, it sneaks in like an dog hair scratching at your nose
i like your prose
there is no mile to walk
we pretend it s all good
fuck the shoes
goddammit to hell
do it on your own legs
the shoes are worn through
anyway
tell me
do you have a crooked
tree picked out
overlooking the valley
as the days run shorter
as the haze gets lower
we please the mountains
finding their secrets
the beauty overtaking
our sorrow
hallelujah
besides
there is no trusting
anyone with out a tree
picked out
thats what
makes us brothers.
underswansea
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