Pulled out an old journal of mine,
on a whim to read empty words.
I found her pages inserted in the
front of my ten year old book.

She gave me her soul on paper,
and I was too much of a fool to read
the love that she wanted to give.

Grab a guy's **** and he'll do whatever you want.

Put your **** in a ****** the right way and you own her.

Power equals ****** potency.

****** potency equals power.

Behind every powerful man stands a woman.

And behind every powerful woman stands a well hung man.

The problem that arises from this outlook is that love is nonexistent.

Love dies when all we need is a good ****.

That moment when we decide that who we are as individuals is our
own  choice.....that moment breaks what we were given.

What do you want from me?
Do you want my love or my history?
Shall you accept these pieces of a man
living a life made of rusted ideas?

Are you willing to make love to an effigy?

I can give all that I am to you in a
single moment of purple ******,
but when the dawn comes,
my body turns to ash upon your bed.

Waking and you find the pieces of my
soul I left for you...my heart a burnt offering.

I am not a poet, not a man, not a person...
not the idea of love you were given.

I am pieces of a broken boy left to give you,
a love shaped and broken by the idea of love.

Pretending that there is something worth
hunting for deep within what I may have given.

I have nothing to give save emptiness.....
nothing but the desert sands.

I am going to make you love me,
but it will hurt.

HAS no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned?
I could have warned you; but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever's offered
And dream that all the world's a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.

It was windy when my father finally met the man who took his hopes from him. It's always windy in the desert during the day unless you're in a town or an arojjo. Greg had trailed the man from Tuson all the way to El Paso, a three hundred mile ride.  The story goes that the guy dad was after was just a bounty...but I know the real background.

My father may have been many things, may have had a dark streak in him, may have had a past he never spoke of...but so do I.

The ironic thing is that this man my father had been hunting over so many miles, used to be his best friend. This man, called Greene, taught my dad all he knew, and left Greg when he needed him most.

Word on the trail was that Greene and his boys cut up a couple workin girls, cut em up the way no woman ever should live through.

Greg found em, walked in on them when they weren't expecting anything, snuck up on them in their camp out of town .

My dad shot four of em down before they could draw...
and Greene was the only one left asking why?

"Why Greg?" he asked. "You know why."