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A Thousand Cigarette Butts


Napoleon was a creep.  The power grubber of barbaric Europe.  The civilized moved to Texas.  Back when the cattle roamed back and forth across the Rio Grande.  Like Lonesome Dove.  Visions of McMurtry, our finest writer.  On his terms of endearment and his last picture show.  Duane's depressed. Rhino wars.  The Archer City book man.  Gone hollywood, gone on the road, gone back.  Live and let live, and write it down.  It is some kind of life.  A future, perhaps.

Yes, Napoleon was a creep.  Envied by all the creeps in history, evidently.  Admired for this ridiculous trait.  Hysterics of the sore kind.  Bitterness and snarks.  The boots will snuff em out.  Like a thousand cigarette butts.  Common litter is all.  Your mess is your own mess.  The world needs light, and the world has light.  Good is better than bad.  Happy is better than sad.  The creeps should be drowned, figuratively.  Drowned out and called out.  For abuses to others.  For interrupting the calm and the peace.  Music can exist, and cure, anyway.  Beyond this fight.  Smells like teen spirit for sure, when applied expectations were smashed.  Whatever, nevermind does mean everything.  The importance of every soul.  Keep looking forward my loves, the future goes forever.

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