May 11

UPON READING ALL OF CHRIS OFFUTT’S BOOKS

I get it real bad.
Thirst for whiskey, stranger’s blood.
I want to carry a gun
tucked into my belt.
But I’m just a wannabe.

Sensate life in green;
skin and breath, warmth and coolness.
Sore hands, tired eyes.

Home never lasts there,
but here it lingers, vivid
and bright, yet still gone.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s