kicked in Kentucky,
forgotten in New York,
my motorcycle hands
make things just
to make things better.
Our north, south,
east, west,
keeps flying left,
wishing to find a home
somewhere near a river,
somewhere where folks
and fuckers
become forks amongst dinners.
the smoky intersection
of considered and vulnerable,
is where I was tangled and
where I've been writing songs,
of which wishes could play more
than a few notes on the guitar
and kiss me till I bleed dreams.