Paydirt Pagans

The paydirt pagans
crawl towards Sundays and summer,
drawn to the hot air.

I stay home these days
chasing the hours with sleep,
laughing through dream-grins.

They want to heal me,
lay hands on my lost body.
I ignore their heat.

Summer '09

I'm all Diet Coke and Wu Tang,
Pop corn and the smell of summer-cut grass.
In daylight kisses I feel I'm home,
And I snuggle warm into the lap
of these stretching weeks of dusk and dawn.
I cycle through dance beats and alarms,
learning to fall and the soreness of acomplishment.
Someday I'll feel employed by the trips
I've not taken and will trust my tired wheels.
Now, I'll just yawn into what fur I've collected,
ignoring the fleas and shivers,
looking for a friend to scream synthesized with
in these ruthless mornings before I fall asleep.