A few throw in their Towel.
Some drown in a Pool of Tears.
A few fight life, like Fighters.
Others suffer through the Years.
Few string up their sentences
and bleed with words they Write.
Writing Prose and Poetry,
they hardly sleep at Night.
Fighting their daylight Battles
and waging a War with the World.
Their Words at times hold Promise.
Alas like a stone they’re Hurled.
Words don't decay or rotten.
I read them as I lie down in Bed.
For Others they seem all forgotten. 
I'll keep reading them, till I'm Dead.

i swear we're rarely at ease
with the way we push doors to new experiences
kissing on public property isn't illegal
but the nerve of the act thrills me just as much

parking lots are often not the site
for love birds deprived of merry lip locking
but we paint them red better
than an arsonist with a burning passion
can shade his buildings black

i wish i could watch that night
play itself once more
on a lofty screen just for us
while we do it perhaps again--

the way i took your form
and made it rest against a certain sedan...
the way i kissed you then
while my body leaned on yours...
the way we held that kiss
despite the bustling of the city night...
the way you looked at me
when we paused for a moment's sake...

i could tell you were so ******* high
(and im sure you could tell i was too)

He wears, with me, the charms of love,
exchanging gentle whispers in storms
of fascinated, trembling union.

He shares with me blue velvet nights
of careful and unmeasurable bliss,
and titivates modest morning rebirths.

He cares for me, reproof us not, we make
no show of virtue, or counterfeit innocency,
but partage, in comfort, this open honesty.

The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.

“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.

“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.

In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.

As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.