An old cowboy/
with a non-porn ‘stash/
wrote lines about her eyes/
and a jersey cow’s./

Tho professing all thumbs,/
he sent reams/
of cleverness./
Happy trails/
2 her!

As I read history,/
I again c/
the same me,/
intruding where I shouldn’t b,/
pushed aside in2 melancholy./

No voice of reason/
lets me in./
1day I’ll c/
2 just b/
4 me.

Technology stalls./
Its crash should never derail/
Creativity.

I’m missing you huge./
Days and nights morph together./
You’re my dawn and dusk.

Thousands expected the end of the world (“Rapture”) to happen Saturday, May 21st, 2011. I didn’t worry about it, but thought about the “prophecy” and the “Rapture Weekend” after it didn’t happen:

Some await world’s end./
I spent that day with cool she./
We captured rapture.

She craves attention.
Write, call, text, ask her out, woo.
It’s still not enough.

Hot pads get turned on.
They await your sore stiffness.
Funny, I am, too!

OR
They await your stiff, sore back.

I heard your demand.
It seems a simple request.
Your shower’s too quick.

You admonish me.
Writing flows eas’ly to keys.
My battery is dead.

You want at least 10.
I’ve seen your face and your form.
That’s what you’d be judged.