The Storm and I
The Western sky broods;
fire bolt fingers claw rain laden clouds
roiling to release their soggy burden.
Two wheels, one heart beating
a steel streak across the asphalt plain.
Ride faster to haven,
Ride faster to home.
We fly, the storm and I.
Bad ass, it breathes dank and damp;
the bully wind, rough and ready for the fight shoves hard.
I shove back…
“YOU LOSE!” the thunder cracks above.
“NEVER!” my throttle cracks thunder of it’s own.
Hell bent above,
Hell bent below…
We fly, the storm and I
Sermon at Spearfish Canyon
Below the falls of Bridal Veil,
singing like a choir in Sunday bliss,
the Tribe of Judah gathers
like clouds to a storm
flashing lightning gold in the canyon
A sea of denim with black leather waves
they break, like the moon pulls the tide away from me
the sound, the smell of chrome pipes screaming
in my ears, like a hallelujah chorus
they ride away
Death of A Small Town
the wind recalls the ghostly sounds
of old train whistles in my hometown.
they ripped the steel rails from the ground,
all in the name of progress?
Severed, like a artery to a limb,
the town’s life blood trickles crimson,
down the leaf clogged gutters.
Echoes of souls and feet
that passed, were witnessed
by buildings on the old main street.
Shuttered, boarded, blinded,
these icons of another time.
Speak to me in a voice of
rusted nails and old brick tumbling.
Musty and foul breath of a dying town,
cries out through the decay and crumbling,