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.