We need a Celine/Miller/Kerouac/Bukowski/type for this time and place. I've chosen myself for the job. What did the man say? No guts no glory? So writing poems from the gut will do. And my star is rising...

Thursday, February 03, 2005

tara

Always the dimpled brown-eyed majestic queen
At times she strutted in boots
Where light rains fell from a dusk sky
I knew then she was my reason why
Olive skin
Quiet knowing
Softness and more
in a crazy world of
grey hues
and
too
much
blues

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