Old man, if it'll help you rest, the shotgun that has gone from first son to first son did not come to me, but I do wear the epitaph of one of your old suits. I remember we stood in the order of our birth years, children of the children you left, all holidays waiting the big Buick to pull in the yard. For those meals of ash, now you have no stone. I remember how much you drank and cussed. Pistol, you burned your people like a torch. A weed stalk is the devil's walking stick, the bastard, I know it matters to you that none of your blood will bring a flower and nobody but me will cut this grass.
Gary Copeland Lilley
I know more people dead than people alive, my insomniac answer to self-addressed prayers is that in the small hours even God drinks alone. My self-portrait; gray locks in the beard, red eyes burning back in the mirror, the truths of grooves and nicks on my face, one missing tooth. I'm a man who's gathered too many addresses, too many goodbyes. There's not much money or time left to keep on subtracting from my life. Except for needs I can pack everything I have into my old black sea-bag. To all the bloods I'll raise a bourbon, plant my elbow on the bar and drink to the odds that one more shot won't have me wearing a suit of blues. I'm so exposed, with you all of me is at risk, and if that's only one side of being in love that's the one deep down that proves it. Here you are sleeping with me, narcotic as night, naked as an open hand, and the skinny of it is, what makes you think I am afraid of this when I once lived in a cave, moss on the cold wall, all my bones scattered across the floor.