Give Me Campfire Hands And Guitars Strung With Soul


Give me empty pockets

and a dirty old egg sucking

dog that hitchhiked across

blue highways on back

of a Folsom Harley, begging

bar after bar.

Give me burnt rubber cracklings

of tires melting into black desert

asphalt, as they rip through

the stillborn air leaving

a trail of fly carcasses

splattered in the eyes

of the bus windshield.

Give me faded blue jeans

broken-in like a well read

paperback book,

coffee stains, wrinkles, and holes

gathering with every step

rewriting my story.

Give me Japhy Ryder’s boots

laced with Zen, serenity

reverberating through sojourner feet

into my bones, the core of me

receding into tar.

Give me campfire hands

that burn like whiskey

down the throat, warmth

stretching into my icy

woogity woogity fingers.

Give me guitars strung

with soul, full

of Hendrix’s hazy dreams whispering

in my ear, telling me

to kiss the sky.

Give me to the Road,

all of me.