whip-poor-will

misanthropic dead beat poet
catches the streams on fire.
repels down the gully, feet in
gum soft clay, i say
call me a shivering idiot but i know
she knows i'd never give up Alaska
for drinking in the dark.

we bought lightbulbs on the 3rd trip to the store
though - ate sushi with pockets full of chopsticks and soysauce.
talked about talking while drumming our knees to shake up
heat. We are a rare breed, crossed with wild cats that like
coffee and cigarettes.

I'm a writer writing for all the wrong reasons and about them.
Our pale skin blonde headed hallelujahs go down like roots to the
ground water. Oh whippoorwill
you'll catch this soul as it goes.