Got a phone call from one of the last American outlaws. Worth writing a poem about, I reckon.
Straight Shooting
Like an olive branch
without the tree arm
I hang up on twelve
studio audiences
& take your call.
Hiccuping past customs we
halt waltz shyly,
duckwise and odd,
they might call us shell shocked
someday. Not now? 'Kay, now
we are back to spiral bound
notebooks and sitting together,
you know all the answers but
I keep flagging taxis.
We land on the bus,
agreeing with each other
more than ourselves.
Well, I can't speak for me.
Really I just miss you,
and no matter what astral
concessions or Valhalla
taverns we outlive, damn it
cowboy, I'll always miss you.
Do our old pals miss us like
we miss you?
You helped haunt me again,
sunrise over the 16th arcana.
I can't thank you enough. We
honeycoated the beehive,
once upon a time, our gang
didn't we? Okay, call us
snafu shell shocked.
I'll see you again. We
frequent the same bars, after all.
Queer we don't see one
another there, but that's
mostly my fault. I haven't
been drinking.
See, when you ring
it rains olives.
I remember that part,
but I forget the seeds
I oft mistake for queries.
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