link to savvy


Little Red Riding HoodWhen we were young and we had it all in front of us…Busy streets Walkin the BeastTogether for a Light ShowerA Time for IndividualityFighting Upstream on a Wild HorseGenerating a Present with PresenceAnd it's Like That, Ain't It?Gluttonous EyesInto the Wildheel meSteamrollin like an 18-wheelerBody WorkStranger. Killer. MuseHer Heart in MineDisdainedCapped in the ShinBreaking BravadoPortrait of a LadyIn TruthAmong the Wildflowers

Steamrollin like an 18-wheeler

Tormented weather station agent;
Of misplaced leads,
unruly texts and clairvoyance;
Braced, slapped, reminded
-With the choices of yesterday-
Again and again.

On the scene,
This clown's clasped;
Arms on the podium,
Cuffs in the chest,
Remembers the smiling,
And laughter
-from here after.

Walking in tidal winds,
Pulled back to the heels of my feet,
Elitists seemed to jog on past,
On a smashing blast to the fortune five hundreds.
Picture painters
Playing the lines,
Like strings of a violin
-Or could hope to-
Leaving ballad-ness.

Institutions for the mad,
Whether genius
-Or just plain lost,
The construct-
This music-less violinist,
Seemed to sleek straight in the moody noon
Of infinite light;
Of night time skies
-yet, eventually seen.

Looking at the man
Who moves to print ludes and antidotes
Full of empty words,
Eventually reveals
An organic transparency
Through self-infliction
Where no word could hide
The eyes of tension in this
-Loss for consolidation.

Years have passed by,
Since the enlightened heights
Of tranquil prowling howls;
Now, at last
The points may rise and fall
On the steady stream
Of this lifeline in normalcy.

On a climb
Dig the natural high
And pure like a Columbian bean;
Still the shill can't shake
A return of
One sung soldier sloped
Through his unslept solutions.

Out there,
The prairie Bogan living a nickel a day,
Nothing on the cast
-and less coming on recline.
His dignity for work,
It's completion-
Through the sunny hours
And the flowering stage
We dug along that lonely fence line.

A home for a few to live;
A house that the world built in recycling
Manpower, wood and concrete.
In between the seams
A kitchen brewed professional orthodox,
On that same floor
Of his fellow expatriates,
Their work and sacrifice,
Burning notes deep like ditches
-It all lives within,
Like nicotine on the lungs.

Cows walked their course,
From feeding to sleep
For the ultimate consumption;
The two galloping horned heroes,
Wilma, and Niki,
Played their way to our memory's lane
For more than just one day.

Sheep farmers and the Abattoirs
Etched the daily sketch
That was all quite nice.
So, glorious moments break,
Making choices easy;
Shake the brain and unlace,
Horizons always carry a better state
Of faith in the wake of each grainy maze
Of exploit -
As good-bye is drawn in exhaust fumes,
And a flat of empty bottles.