The artist

You're an artist.
Don't take leave
of your senses.
Leave your
sentence behind.
You are free.
You are flowing.
You're a fighter.
You take care
and take over.
Never hostile,
always gentle.
Bring them close
and close your eyes
to tell the story
of the death
and the hatred
and the wonder
of the womb
where you hide
where you sleep
slowly growing
'til the day
when the world
and all its people
wait no longer.
They long for words
about the bombs
and the bullets
and all the ways
you'll make it right
if you can find it
in your heart
in your mind
in your soul
to paint the picture
of the peace
that will mangle
every malice.
Then all who speak will say:
"There's a man
with a vision
and the will
to make it well.
He's a poet.
He's a preacher.
He's the answer.
He's an artist."

whiskey mouth

His words tore through me,
Sung in the key of fuck me dead.
Upstroke, downstroke,
Strumming chords both blue and red.

I want your whiskey mouth,
Warm in these cold-sweat nights.
Use those charms you learned down south.
Throw me from your smokey highs.

His six strings held me,
Strung me up clear down to the bone.
Upstroke, downstroke,
Strumming chords for me alone.

I want your whiskey mouth...
 
His music bound me,
Clung to my heart and burned my skin.
Upstroke, downstroke,
Strumming chords that tell my sins.