Concentrating on You

These days I spend largely alone concentrating on concentrating. Living the life of a semi-nomadic cow-puncher-writer with the gloves of the damned stretched across my taught fists. I say bring it on muther fucker because the bovine are on their tip hooves up top the fence posts crooning at the alabaster moon and me I’m licking the bourbon sweat from the nipples of the deity inebriation—my mother, my god—what am I doing?

But you know. You’ve got those eyes, the ones I saw seeing me, the ones half full of mercury and waited down with sadness. At night you'll peer out from behind a pillow as the boogey man plays slide guitar inside your nightstand. I’ll come in out of the night to save you, moon beams stuck to my jogging pants like burrs. I’ll pick the nightstand up and shake it like a peanut can to see what’s inside. I’ll open the doors and evil will fall out like an unformed bird. I’ll squash it with the heel of my steel toed boot, eyes and tiny bones popping and squirting. You’ll beckon me towards your bed--after of course I’ve removed my evil smeared boots--and I'll leap and hit my face on the bullet proof glass. You’ll laugh and slide under your covers never to be seen again.