(these thoughts want to slide
like mudslinging cowgirls).
slide, i say. slide.
(it's a place to start).
and i'm stoned and full of joe's. my fingers still greasy
from just-too-right rings.
i'm curving it. looking out for deer.
tunes are playing when betsy has an orgasm. i smile.
makes her shutter-bump worth it. (she's going to hell).
hell, i tell her, new tires are coming too. just you wait
till i peel my onion eyes back to the soul of their beginnings;
before bourbon tasted good and walking wasn't hard.
i'm standing these days. full of worry. not worrying
about what the outcome will be.
i haven't fallen yet. on ice. hit my head or otherwise. though i cut my finger just last week; bleed like a bitch for the pinhole it was.
and she said: icicles are patient. and later:
if you write something about it, let me see.