tit suckers blues

There are no miles to cross,
to come between, to understand
my place.

One step into possibility,
in track of important things
like the main emotion.
True tellings on my face,
of journies walked
and prayer placed
from things I've seen
and carried untold.

Memories gather
on my forehead
and wide eyes flash,
remembering details
you would never understand.

Like things that died
in history, broken pieces,
hard as glass, bled tiny tears
that glitter now,
glued-together cracks
mapped out in miles of age.

I guard my peace
and freedom found
in living life
out of a naked youth
where we learned hate,
imagined love and
understood nothing.

---

Tumbling Tumbleweed

I am in Texas,
20 miles to everywhere
and you know,
looking at that big Texas sky,
why.

Wind blows the late afternoon
down Deep Ellums' empty streets
like a body waiting for a soul.
Tumbling tumbleweed
rolling in my head I pass
tattoo parlors,
silent night-clubs wait for
urban cowboys
and short-skirted girls.
Day turns to night
and Ellum
comes alive.

Silence is a ghost
to the techno beat
calling forth gyrating hips
and sips
off long necked bottles
labeled Shiners bock.
A full-bodied brew to slide
down your tubes,
smooth
like jazzzzz
calling from the
opposite street corner.

I don't believe I heard any
2-steppin' swing your partner
round n' round
on this side
of town
tumbling tumbleweed.

I am in Texas.
Home to the winning team
of the National Poetry Slam.
Friday Slam Night
hosted by Rock Baby
in the Red Room
where the walls
bleed
the soul of poetry.
Whoopeecat cookin' up a
gourmet feast,
Clebo Rainy showing us
his expertise
that poetry
is more than words on paper.

Victory knows all about
the life of the fat girl
and when you leave this place
you will know too
the rawness of Amy Weaver
grabbing you by the balls
even if you don't have any
and squeeeeeeze you awake!

I am in Texas,
no bullshit,
tumbling tumbleweed.

---

photography by Debra Stephens
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