by Stefon Napier21 Sep 2014
Between Two writers
A sun and the brown blood of the moon.
All thy American landscapes range between
And not a single eloquent law to make them convene
But two writers and the things betwixt.
His pen scratches to the music of swished gin
While she lounges carefully in between the thumb and the waist
Encouraging his pace, a meddling mirth to this jukebox revenue.
And his pen scratches on, earth and of course dawn.
What else could he write lest the mockingbird catch on.
He too keeps pace to a jukebox revenue.
Yet between! Such things that they have never seen!
Coney Islands while there are still mouths to feed!
Disease, hookers, and 1.00 flower bed seeds
where there should be forests and dreams.