Cruising with the top down
shotgun
to escaped con
showing what the rebel is,
still getting the work done.
Yet two,
count ’em, two,
distinct threads
that have unraveled
while working another angle,
and though I look my best in this here dress,
it’s all just a smokescreen
the disguise from which
I hide my eyes, the authorities,
and those carefully woven lies.
Taking pictures won’t make it last.
So on to the next charade.
Patching up other things
loves, lives,
tires on a bike
that lay within the basement
of the Alamo.
A fight for independence
from studio execs
my kids demanding:
“ACTION!”
when I’m always forgetting my lines.
Yet, I’ll always come in swinging,
run into that burning building for you
even with the threat of snakes
consequences be damned.