There is a young cowboy…

> he lives on the range,
His horse and his cattle are his only companions
He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons
Waiting for Summer, his pastures to change

And as the moon rises he sits by his fire
Thinking about women and glasses of beer
and closing his eyes as the doggies retire
He sings out a song which is soft but it’s clear
as if maybe someone could hear

Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rockabye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won’t you let me go down in my dreams
and rockabye sweet baby James

-James Taylor “Sweet Baby James” 1970

Its a long day. I finally get to leave work in a few minutes and boy am I glad about it. Spent this morning at the dentist getting my teeth cleaned and my afternoon sitting in front of this glowing box, working. I’m ready for an evening of sitting (hopefully outside) and having some good talks with a new friend.

The last few weeks have been a really good time, and the next few will be too. So many out of town friends, good weather, good food, great music, dancing, long talks. I’m really grateful for it all. Especially the friends. The summer time really does make a difference in my mood, which I know might be a sort of annoying thing to say, but its true. Also, Pride season is upon us, and who doesn’t get perky about a whole month of gaiety? This weekend I’m headed to a nearby town to celebrate and (hopefully) get my gay on, booty shaking style.

I haven’t been writing as much, but I’m trying. The last few weeks have also been about appreciating the art of friends. Now they’ve inspired me to make some of my own.

P.S. This means more poetry to come, unless you hate it. In which case, shove it.


I’ve never.

>He’s closer than a boxcar serenade.
Two bar stools, six whiskeys in.
Dirty feet swaying on a creaky floor.
Its 4 am, he’s
closer than can ever be sure.

He’s a map
stitched together
threadbare flannel over
acid stomach and smoky corners.
A map shaky, glass knees
under steering wheels on
some road. Just a spinning globe.

He’s as constant as the shedding of a snake’s skin,
rolling tumbleweeds,
tin cans rusting into desert sand.

He’s got rough fingers to
write down songs with and

He’s closer than a steam engine whistle at night
Four tires, three thousand miles away.
Dirty fingernails, breaking against guitar strings.
Its too late,

he’s as constant as sweat covered sheets,
empty coffee cups, waterfalls
floating fallen trees downstream.

I’ve never written songs
But those rough fingers
Help me to sing.

At night.

>You were in my bed, black tank-topped
somehow more solid than Ive ever known you to be.
Your sweaty skin,
older, maybe?
You called me ‘baby.
I rolled over and we
clutched and squeezed each other into
urgent air.

You turned into someone else
over and over again
so many different people
I stopped breathing
woke up screaming
pillow clutched in my arms
wet from missing you.

its scary to have dreams
that are so close to home
and when I’m alone
the stories almost break my bones