Categories
Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

following tracks

yes, we are plunging into the snowy wood
because i come from a long line
of dead indians
outdoorsmen and southern drunks
me
my shotgun
canteen
and trusty steed of a dog
inked pheasant feather in my cap
but we wouldn’t dare shoot a thing
not so much as a skittering squirrel
though dad showed me how to skin ’em
with five slits of a pocket knife
when i was six
i won’t spill blood for the sake
of making noise
and the chance
to lean against a tree
sipping sunday bourbon

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s