She’s putting the pain in painter again,
and it’s not just ice, but fire, too –
& there are sperm sprouts in the mulch swamps,
& there are hotbeds of uncertainty awash in mercenary wine;
So watch a woman’s joy and strength in Music,
and watch her transform,
As your nights do you,
and what do I ride for?
I saw the Headless Horseman
glide across coyote lawns;
I saw false jewels sparkling in the hills,
I’ve drunk from the fountains of fear
Under gray ceilings incontravertable, and I’ve
sucked hot sounds from the seminal earth,
while playing python games in the mind,
playing with love and hate together,
trying to read the list of loves gone,
with eyes that drowned long ago.

Published by Chris Robideaux

I currently live in Scottsdale, AZ, and enjoy bicycling, wine tasting, poetic and historical research, and meeting other artistic/intellectual types. I am a freelance writer, wine salesman, guitarist, world traveler, cat/animal lover, and listener to the Cosmos.

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