<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643</id><updated>2012-02-10T23:50:29.293-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Savig's ramblings</title><subtitle type='html'>There are no scholarly words to be found here. Merely the ramblings of a static mind are the order of any bored individual that stomach's the burden of going further.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>57</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-7259732588627549711</id><published>2011-10-09T22:14:00.010-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-10T00:48:20.221-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW 11</title><content type='html'>I thought the whistling of the wind coming through the broken window was going to be the end of me. I was wrong. As the sun gained some height in the morning sky I could feel my left eye throbbing. My neck and my right hand had let me know when the adrenaline had wore off hours ago. The eye was new news and not welcome at all. I reached for my sun glasses in the visor and they fell to the floor between your feet. Fuck! I didn't want to stop to safely reach them and I didn't want to wake you so you could hand them to me. You had refused to recline your seat when I knew you needed to sleep and so there you sat upright with your pretty head on the window. I felt my hands tighten on the wheel as my thoughts were allowing me to be in a quite and still place holding you close. As your hair fell on my shoulder and brushed my cheek I thought of a Yeats poem. The lines started slowly coming back to me like lyrics from a favorite song, " He bore her away in his arms, the handsomest young man there, and his neck and his breast and his arms were drowned in her long dim hair". Damn fine line I thought as I closed my left eye to the sun. It helped a bit. I was glad that the road was straight and lonely. I held the wheel with one hand and the back of your seat with the other as I leaned towards you. I got my nose as close to your neck as possible and took in a long swallow of your scent. My mind skittered back to when I first met you. It was your scent that first let me know that you were made for me. I had always associated so much with smells. I could still pick my first girl friends perfume off a lady that I passed in the street. Anis Anis, I would think to my self. I never thought a lady's scent would make or break a possibility of a great relationship. It was always in play but it never grabbed me by the throat and stood me up until the first time I was close enough to really smell you. We were on the roof of my best friends apartment. He had met you recently in Union Square and had squired you away with his charm. After a night of heavy drinking he passed out and we made our way to the roof. The city was as quiet as you could hope as every thing had closed and the bridge and tunnel crowd crawled home. Aside from having too much energy this late and enjoying your company and another drink on the roof, I had no thoughts in my head. I followed you up the spiral stair case and would not avert my eyes as I thought how lucky my brother was. When we sat down our chatter stopped. The buildings around us and the streets of NY below us were mesmerizing. We eventually started talking. The second time you came back up from using the bathroom and getting us another drink you stumbled and sat down right next to me. You giggled and I fell into your eyes. I went on with some gibberish and you stopped me with, "It's too bad we didn't meet sooner." I could not believe you were saying exactly what had been on my mind all night. Hearing it didn't make things easier though because now I knew I was not imagining the chemistry. I foolishly leaned in for a kiss. You smiled and pulled back. I felt foolish. I regained my senses and jerked myself into an upright position. The damage was done though. It was not the end of our night. No, we carried on. It was the end of me searching. I had gotten close enough to you to really smell you. I can still feel my nostrils open up and take in the perfect blend of sweetness and muskiness. I felt my spine curl and snap back straight like a screen door slamming. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood up as if to blow a bugle cry from the top of a mountain in case I might miss the signal. I felt like I had taken a sip of you as I felt your effect register deep inside me. I was dumbfounded. I was elated. I was more sad than anything. How could something so perfect be right in front of me and I could not just reach out and take hold of it. The buildings fell around us and the streets buckled. Steam rose up and I was on a ragged carpet floating above the Hudson heading away from you. I wanted to cry but I was dry and didn't have the strength to pull water from the river below. You brought me back with a slight touch to my hand. "You look like you have a lot on your mind. It was nice talking to you. I am going to turn in. Good night Patrick". As you turned and went down the stairs I fell back and felt the gravel under my head as I caught sight of the few misty stars that had enough courage to burn though the tough light of the city. I wondered if I could ever muster enough light to burn through my own fog. If it had not been for the on coming tractor trailer I might have driven off the road trapped in my thoughts. I opened my sore eye and looked at you sleeping. I put my attention back to the road. I had something beside me that once seemed like an unlikely dream. It was not cold but I turned the heat on in hope that it would blow your scent toward me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-7259732588627549711?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/7259732588627549711/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=7259732588627549711' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7259732588627549711'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7259732588627549711'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/10/kow-11.html' title='KOW 11'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2240259457396134358</id><published>2011-09-27T01:25:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-09-27T03:40:58.857-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW 10</title><content type='html'>It was late and we were too tired to move on. I got out and opened the back door. I found the sleeping bags and rolled them out. I pushed the rest of the gear out of the way the best I could. When I felt there was enough room to sleep, I went around to your door and tried to wake you."Babe, babe, wake up..... babe, come on honey." "what the fuck are you doing?" "Just trying to get us comfortable. Come on, let's get in the back." You looked like a little girl as you rubbed your eyes with your balled up fists. "I'm too tired for this shit Patrick!" Fuck. This day just would not end. I opened up my door and found my pack of smokes. I lit one and looked up to the cold clear sky. I could really live in Colorado I thought. For an instant I thought I saw a huge shooting star. No. It was the white light of being hit in the head. I faintly remember my knees buckling as I thought in slow motion that I should have more control. All I could smell was the dust shoved in my nostrils. I could not move. From my perspective, all I could see was the rear wheel of the jeep. The breaking of the glass sounded like a fire cracker that hadn't done it's job. Safety glass shards danced around me. I was hit in the face by the fall out and dreamed of getting to my feet. I heard you scream and rough voices answering you. I was trying to furiously rub the dirt from my eyes and find my way to my hands and knees when I was dealt a breath stealing kick to my ribs. I rolled and tried to climb under the Jeep. I was grabbed by my ankles and drug back out. These fuckers are going to kill us I thought. I caught a piece of the under body with my hands and dug in. I started kicking and pulled myself back a bit. I could hear a lot of cussing and commotion. When I heard you scream everything changed. A switch had been flipped. Killing me was one thing, taking my girl was another. I instantly pictured where every tool was in the Jeep and how I could use them. I had nothing and being under the Jeep was doing me no good. I would rather die. I scurried for the back of the Jeep and came to my feet with a hand full of dirt. As I shoved the dirt into the jack asses eyes, I made my way around to you. As I cleared the other side of the Jeep I saw you kicking and punching. Two mother fuckers were trying to drag you away. I slowed just enough to reach in the open door and grab the tire iron. I swung it and felt like my face was splashed in my own sweat. You seemed free as one of them let there grip go. You broke loose and ran toward me. "Let's go!" I wanted to follow you into the Jeep. He stood there looking at me. I broke into a gallop and tackled him. We both struggled for a while. I could smell his horrible breath and see his sick eye as I tightened my grip. I let him go as he passed out. Full of hate and death, I walked to the back of the Jeep and gave dirt eyes a good kick to the head. ""I feel dirty." I said as I climbed into the Jeep. "Let's get a motel tonight and clean up." "Okay babe." "You okay?" I ask as I start the Jeep. "I suppose. Are you?" "No, not really." I jerk into drive and pull out. "What can I do honey?" Nothing, I think as I pull out on to the road. Everything, I think as I pull out on to the road. As I floor the Jeep I feel the low howl of a vehicle and I sit up straight for the first time all night. "I need a kiss babe. I need a real god damn kiss." "Well, I think I can give you that." "You think you can? Fuck. I need to know that you can! What the fuck just happened? Who are you? Who are we? Am I losing my mind?" "Babe kiss me." "I don't know if I know you..." You cleared the sand from my eyes when you wrapped you arm around the back of my neck. As you pulled me in I started to say how much I loved you. "Shhsshh, silly boy". Yeah, I know, I thought. I steered for the sand and drove the Jeep off the road. When we came to a halt I reached for you. "Give me your hand Kate." I don't like when your bossy Patrick" "Me either. I like when I am natural and ask you to join me. Bitch" I wasn't surprised too much when you gave me a small smack to the chin before you lassoed your arm around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss I could get no where else.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2240259457396134358?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2240259457396134358/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2240259457396134358' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2240259457396134358'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2240259457396134358'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/09/it-was-late-and-we-were-too-tired-to.html' title='KOW 10'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8023409572609802246</id><published>2011-09-12T01:00:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-09-12T01:47:02.116-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW 9</title><content type='html'>I opened the door for you and you proceeded to fall straight down on your ass. Your legs were straight out and the points of your boots were straight up to the stars. I reached down for your hand and was surprised when you didn't bat it away. I held your sweaty hand tight and slowly pulled you to your feet. I reached around and dusted off your ass and you just stood there smiling at me. No teeth, just a clinched lipped smile. As I looked into your clear eyes I swore I was witnessing a carnival from times past. I could see the little girl leading the pony, I could see a gimp rigging ropes for the swing ride, I could see the fat man with the waxed mustache struggling to keep it all together as the twin strong men fought each other for the right to ring the bell first. The Barker roared in and demanded to know why the crated fighting hens were in his trailer. The monkey seemed depressed, the boa was running a fever, no one could find the wax for the Palomino's saddle and the clown was so damn sad that his makeup would not stay in place with all the tears running the paint off. I looked to the left and then to the right. It seemed that the carnival had moved on. I pulled you in for a kiss. You took it and wrapped your arm around me. You slid into the seat and I went around to the other side. As I secured my seat belt I looked over at you. "Ready to go babe?" You didn't answer. You leaned over and I heard a click. My seat belt retracted as you slid onto my lap. As you squared off with me, eye to eye, you said, "Yeah, I'm ready to go."  The keys dropped to the floor and once again I reached for the unexpected.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8023409572609802246?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8023409572609802246/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8023409572609802246' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8023409572609802246'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8023409572609802246'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-opened-door-for-you-and-you-proceeded.html' title='KOW 9'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2639015220657373854</id><published>2011-07-19T03:01:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-07-19T05:37:16.314-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW 8</title><content type='html'>I should have seen it coming. You got lit up pretty quickly with all the shots the locals were buying you. I was tired and trying to come off the buzz of the road as I sipped my beer. You were coming from sleeping in the passenger seat all night. You had some rest on your side, but you also were aggravated that I did  not stop last night. You had insisted on Colorado. I agreed but wanted to go through on the way back. Instead of fighting with you I jerked the wheel Northbound. I ended up on 285. I just followed it along through 17 and eventually we were on 24. My anger slowly slipped away as we rolled up and down the passes. When we hit Leadville we both agreed it was time to stop. Yeah, we were in a town perfectly suited for us, a town time had forgot. The buildings were old and we didn't see many lights as we rolled through. The lights from the tavern weren't that bright but we could see it was open. As I found a place to park you were yanking the door open before I came to a stop. You reached in the back and found that old pair of black cowboy boots you found at the second hand shop in New Mexico. You didn't hesitate for socks, just kicked the sandals off and slid them on. As I was trying to gather myself all I could see was the dust from your boot heels as you made your way to the door. When I came through the door you were shouting and slamming your shot glass back down on the bar. Aside from you, it was like stepping back in time. The bar was ancient. The inhabitants just a little less.  I walked up to the bar and reached for the other shot glass. "Yeah, fuckers!" You grabbed it without looking at me and downed it. I looked to the bartender for a little help. He looked at me and dismissed me. You realized I was there. "Where you been?!?" "Get me and my man a drink, dammit!" Old grizzles looked over and just stared. "Who's paying, sweetheart?" I started to say something as you erupted with, "My god damn man is!" He grabbed the bottle and held it above our glasses. " Well, are you son?" My teeth floated but I tried to see straight. "Yes". That's all I said but in my mind I was saying " Just pour the god damn drink asshole!" As I pulled the dried up bills out of my pocket he was snatching them before I had a chance to lay them on the bar. You downed yours without looking at me and made your way to the juke box. After I downed mine I got a beer and tried to be one with the shadows. I was sitting next to an old guy that didn't have much to say. I was thinking about tomorrow when the commotion started. I looked over when the bar stool bounced on the floor. You were on the bar now and kicking your heels in every direction. I could see the spittle of your admirers flying from their mouths back lit by the juke box. You were in your element and if I wasn't worrying about our safety I would have taken you down on that bar. I started towards you. The song ended. I was not near you when you bent at the waist and started picking up the bills they had been throwing at your feet. My panic paused as I took in the vision of the back of those beautiful legs. I thought if I was going to end with one last vision, I was there. One of the jack asses reached out and grabbed your ankle. I broke into a gallop. I never made it there. The old boy I was having a beer with had come out of the bathroom and punched him square in the temple. The boy fell. You continued grabbing your money off the bar. You hopped down with a tremendous yelp and screeched, "That's right fuckers!" You ran for the door and I followed suit. As I hit the street your beautiful ass was heading to the Jeep and as I followed I wondered if we would rest tonight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2639015220657373854?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2639015220657373854/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2639015220657373854' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2639015220657373854'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2639015220657373854'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/07/i-should-have-seen-it-coming.html' title='KOW 8'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8904714119201899513</id><published>2011-07-01T01:10:00.005-04:00</published><updated>2011-07-01T03:15:13.958-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW 7</title><content type='html'>Traveling Wilburys " You took my breath away". When this came on I was driving through the dark on a very welcoming open road. Your head was resting on your shoulder. You had fallen asleep with out tilting your seat back. I had never heard this song before. I had become familiar with the group many years ago. My brother had told me how much he liked this band. When questioned as to why, he simply replied, "Because no one in that band has ever pissed me off". It was the best musical review I had been party to in my life time. Now I had a fresh perspective. I had never gauged how much I liked something by how little it pissed me off. I was only nineteen and whistling down the road in his truck on our way to a grueling day. He had his own under ground utility company and I was working part time for him and part time at my life guarding job. My other job was easier but I liked this better. I was learning something. I was working with grown men who weren't in the middle of college like me. It was real every moment. All the sudden I wasn't looking at life as just one fun situation that of course leads to the next irresponsible fun. I didn't have much time to ruminate on this. Before I could blink, he was in boss mode and I was in helper mode. As I trudged along the field that would soon be a housing development with two five gallon buckets of wet cement in each hand heading toward a hole in the ground, I could feel my mind strain in unison with my shoulders. Something clicked and I took one step toward being a man. There was no place for boy hood silliness in this environment. I climbed down the hole and some one else lowered the buckets by a rope. I actually had a better job than the guy up top but I had earned it. It had nothing to do with being the bosses brother. It came from the way I had floated cement for him when he was doing more traditional cement work. I had the touch with the trowel and later that would lead me into becoming a great plasterer. That was years down the road though. For now I was hunched up in a pipe union that would later direct the water that would eventually throw through it. Four pipes came into the union I was squatting in. I had a pile of brick and ten gallons of cement to work with. This had to be right. I put the angle wrong and things are flowing back down hill. I could have been non chalant about it and just put it together how ever I cared. Eventually my errors would come to light and my brother would be responsible for tearing up a street that didn't exist yet and making it right. No. I was in that hole by myself. It was cool and dark but I was hot from the pressure. I needed to get this right. I started by two of the pipes and started laying my mud down. I carefully selected my bricks and squeezed them down until the mud started showing around the sides. After the main course was set I had to start breaking the bricks with the back of my hammer. It felt unreal as I watched this solid material break exactly where I wanted it to. I fitted the slender pieces and then turned around and started from scratch on the other two pipes that completed the juncture. When I crawled out of that hole proud of myself, I was given two more buckets and pointed at the next hole in the ground. There was going to be no back slapping out here. As I made my way to my next cool escape I heard my brother behind me shout, " Keep getting it Snow Pea!". I knew I was doing OK in his eyes if he was using a nick name on me that one of my other friends had come up with. I smiled and climbed down into the hole. I did what I needed to do and came back to the surface. As I rode back home I looked over at the bay and didn't care that we were stuck in traffic. He reached behind his seat and handed me a cold beer. If I never made it again, I at least knew I made it that day. .... As the darkness slipped past my steering wheel I wondered how I could have two things at once because of a song. Fond memories of past times with my brother and an over brimming realization that I just had heard a song that I would want to sing to you for all my years to come. As I reached over and put my hand on your leg you came to. "What the fuck? Where are we?" "Between here and there babe. Go back to relaxing and enjoy the ride."  "Patrick, god damn it! I thought we were going to stop. My back is sore!" I couldn't look at you. I steeled my eyes toward the flickering road. " I'm tired too. We will stop when it is time." I could feel the salt in your anger as I gripped the wheel a bit tighter. I looked ahead as I drug those buckets into the hole knowing how important it was that the water flow in the right direction.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8904714119201899513?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8904714119201899513/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8904714119201899513' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8904714119201899513'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8904714119201899513'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/07/kow-7.html' title='KOW 7'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2376669086492293</id><published>2011-06-25T00:46:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-25T02:41:31.836-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW part  6</title><content type='html'>Things were not settled. Our conversation had turned into grunts and nods. A day ago I was in the throes of the best love making of my life. Now I was with the girl responsible for that great event not talking to me. I was sweating the wheel as my mind out paced the tires. "Baby, talk to me. This is killing me. We were having so much fun and now I am driving blindly down the road." You replied with, "You know where you want to go. Just keep going." Shit! I could barely see. I turned the wheel, hit the brake, and made my way off the road into the sand. We came to a dusty halt. I turned the Jeep off. " Talk to me Kate." You put your pretty feet back on my dash and chewed your bottom lip while twirling a finger through your hair. The silence was killing me. I looked past you at a Western sky that I was not used to. The beauty of it was nullified by your silence." Babe, please..." "Don't call me babe!" You jerked a smoke from your bag but could not find a lighter. The Jeep lighter doesn't work when she is turned off. I tried to hand you my lighter but you were having none of that. You found my matches in the glove box and finally lit it. After you had a few puffs you seemed to calm down. I went to put my hand on your leg and quickly realized how misguided I was. You jerked your leg away from me and put a glare on me. Now my steam was starting to rise. Okay, I thought, fuck it. I got out and walked around to your door and opened it. You looked at me like I was a stranger. I reached out and grabbed your arm and pulled you out of the Jeep. " What the fuck are you doing?' "Shut up and let's settle this." I turned and started leading you away from the Jeep. You took a couple of steps and then balled up and punched me in the back of my neck. The shock shot down my spine. I stopped. I reached into my pocket, found my keys, and threw them at you. They bounced of your shoulder and fell into the sand. " There you go you angry bitch. Take em and drive off. I'm gonna keep walking and try to clear my head." I turned and headed out. Two hundred yards later you started yelling. "Where are you going?!?" I turned but kept walking backwards. "I read that there is an old pony express stop about a mile from here and I want to see it." I turned my toes back in the direction I was heading and had great hope you would follow. I looked over my shoulder occasionally and watched you become a speck. I could not even see the road when I found it. Earthen embankments and holes that were windows was all that was left. I could see why it was unmolested, it was out of the way and a damn long walk considering the 100 degree temperature. I regretted not having more water but enjoyed running my hands across the adobe walls. I could smell the history. I looked 0ver the back wall and took in the distant mountains. It was beautiful but I couldn't really take it in fully. I was worried about you even though I should have been worried about myself. I barely had any water, was a mile from the road, and had no idea if someone would pick up a hitcher out here. I found a book that people who had made the hike had signed and dated. It was in a plastic box. More Europeans had signed it than Americans. Yeah, America. We can drive by so we will. I signed my name and yours. I gave a brief description of what got us here. All the sudden you were there. You handed me the gallon of water you carried and said, "Drink you god damn fool." I took it from you and was grateful to follow directions for the first time in my life. As I struggled to put the lid back on I realized how much the heat had affected me. You just stood there looking at me. I started to come back to my senses and started talking about what I had read and started pointing my finger towards the old trail, the range, where the natives were, why the pony express lasted just a year, etc..... You put your arms around my neck and silenced me when you bit down on my tongue. I came back to my senses and was glad we were okay. I wrapped you up and we fell into the sand. I knew I was in the embrace of the kind of woman I had only imagined. It wasn't true I thought. As the sun was peeling the skin off my back and your ass was raw from the sand, we decided that we could find a better place to carry on. You entwined your fingers in my left hand and we started the long hot walk back. When we got back to the Jeep you asked me how much gas we had. "More than enough to get us through." As I reached for your door you opened the back door and climbed in. "What are you doing? You want to ride back there?" You looked at me with fiery eyes. "Yeah, this is where I want to ride. Start the fucking Jeep, turn the A/C on, lock the doors, and finish what you  started."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2376669086492293?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2376669086492293/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2376669086492293' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2376669086492293'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2376669086492293'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/06/kow-part-6.html' title='KOW part  6'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6667082548546783486</id><published>2011-06-24T23:59:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-25T00:44:07.905-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW part 5</title><content type='html'>We entered the place through the back door. It seemed like the front because there was parking. We needed to get a couple of plates for when we were camping again. We broke the one and I cursed myself for not breaking down and getting some proper tin camping plates. My eyes focused ahead and saw the guy at the register at the other end of the store looking at us. I could tell he was wondering why we came in the back door. You saw a 70's issue of Rolling Stone and you were off. I walked to the front and said hi to the guy. "Sorry man, we thought it was the front door." "No problem man. Looking for any thing in particular?" Yeah, I need a couple of cheap plates and a sharp knife." "That stuff's out front. The plates I mean. I have a couple of killer knives. One is from a vet that was Green Beret, served in Nam."  "Okay, I am going to go check out the plates. I don't need that kind of knife in my life anymore." " Sorry man, I thought you were cool." Really? My head was getting that clogged filter feeling again. My face must have said too much. As I went to walk by he snorted and said, "Yeah, man. Your so bad ass you don't need a knife. I get it." As I turned I had already grabbed a table lamp and was half way around to landing it when I had to stop because you had rushed up. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrickkkkk!" I froze when I saw your scared eyes. The lamp fell to the floor. "What the fuck man? Chill out!" You gripped my hand and looked into my eyes. I could not do harm in your presence. I pulled a twenty out of my pocket, tore it in half, and laid one half on the counter. "Yeah, I am going to chill out man. I am walking out front and getting what I came here for. If that does not cover it, come find me and I will give you the other half." I got us two plates a knife and a long walk around the shop to where the Jeep was. I was waiting for a door to rush open but we were able to back out and point west again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6667082548546783486?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6667082548546783486/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6667082548546783486' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6667082548546783486'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6667082548546783486'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/06/kow-part-5.html' title='KOW part 5'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2660869964245789432</id><published>2011-06-24T02:13:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-24T04:17:17.270-04:00</updated><title type='text'>KOW part 4</title><content type='html'>When I came to, I felt like I was on a damn slip and slide. The mattress was soaked. I was looking at that same  ceiling for the second time today. I rolled over and drank in my view of you sleeping soundly on your belly. I took a minute to study the curve of your back taking a roller coaster ride up the hill of that perfectly round ass. Damn. I quietly put my feet on the ground and made my way to one of the chairs by the window. I sat down with a smoke and reached for the cold coffee you had got me earlier. As I sipped and smoked I just stared at you. I read you like the best book. I viewed you the way I would great paintings when I was a regular at MOMA. You looked so beautiful the sweat on my skin disappeared from lack of attention. I took an inventory of our surroundings and the torn sheet stood out. It was still tucked under one corner of the mattress but the rest was on the floor. There was a spilled glass of water, the lamp shade was dented, and our clothes were truly helter skelter. Yeah, we could put the clothes together but I wondered what the damage to the room would cost us. I really did not care. We had flirted around this moment for way too long. It made perfect sense that that we ate that room up while devouring each other. I reached into my bag and found some underwear, grabbed my jeans, and put a T shirt on. I walked over to the front office to find the owner. As I pushed the door open it hit some hanging bells that I didn't notice the first time I had come in. Now the sound set my nerves on edge. He walked out and said, "Hi Patrick. How's it going?".  "Good. Good. I just wanted to talk to you about", "Listen Patrick, don't worry about earlier. I know you were upset because you didn't know where your girl was. No worries man.". "Thanks. That's not what I came to talk about though".  He looked past me towards the room and then quickly looked back at me. "Well then, what's on your mind brother?" This set me back for a second because "brother" was not a term I passed around lightly. I liked this guy but "brother" he was not. I stared through him a second before I could reply. "I need to settle up because I am ready to head out". "Sure man. Um, it is late in the afternoon though and I will have to charge you for two nights. So why don't you guys just stay tonight and get a fresh start in the morning? I mean, what the hell, you are paying for the room until eleven tomorrow. Maybe we could all have a drink later. I have a grill that I could...." The buzz was howling in my head. "No. Thanks. I need to drive tonight. Listen brother, I kind of tore the room up with my girl and need to know what it is going to cost before I shove off. I don't want any surprise charges down the road so I want you to come take a look and charge me now." Now he looked a bit pensive. "Okay brother, I can do that.." "Stop calling me brother. I like you but no one calls me brother without a good reason." "I didn't mean to offend you, I was just.." "Stop talking man. I am going to wake up my girl to get ready to leave. Give us forty five minutes to get our shit together and come do your inspection. Access the  damages and let me settle up with you."  "Okay, Patrick. I will be over in forty five. I did not mean to set you off." "You didn't Brian, I set myself off and now I need to roll. Your motel and your kindness will be a part of me from here on out. Trust me, I will be back and then you can fire that grill up. For now, I need to get moving. It's nothing against you or your motel. I'm in the dark as to what is going on, to be quite honest with you. I am relying on instinct and instinct is telling me to get moving." I walked back to our room and regretted not wearing shoes. My feet were on fire! I opened the door and you were sitting at the table drinking a beer. The ash on your cigarette was long and threatening to add more to our room damage charges. Your eyes seemed to look straight through me. "Hey babe, you okay?" Now you gained focus and looked straight at me. I did not know what to expect. Your face was as unmoving and pure as alabaster. You never even blinked as you stood up, put your hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me towards your lips. As we kissed, I felt like I had never had a kiss in my life. When you broke the kiss and pulled away you locked on my eyes and said, "What's the next move babe?" I explained as you presented me with packed bags. "I knew you would do the right thing." You then proceeded to pack the Jeep. When I was done with Brian we headed out. God bless him, he must have liked us. He didn't charge us for half the damage that our fireworks caused. As I pulled out of that tight garage and steered back onto 66, I wondered if I would ever see this again. It didn't matter at that moment though. I was too distracted by you. The cut off' jean shorts you were wearing gave my eyes a large expanse of your perfect legs. I put my hand on your knee. You wasted no time grabbing my hand and putting it on the fringes of your shorts. Your milky thigh in my hand I hit the pedal on the right and sped towards the next time I could give you my full attention.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2660869964245789432?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2660869964245789432/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2660869964245789432' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2660869964245789432'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2660869964245789432'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/06/kow-part-4.html' title='KOW part 4'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6571366696256986120</id><published>2011-06-20T01:33:00.006-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-24T01:47:22.015-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Kisses on the wind 3</title><content type='html'>I woke up with a jolt. My eyes focused on a ceiling and it took me a minute to realize where I was. So many nights in the tent and now I was in a bed. As the memories from last night started arranging themselves I felt my initial panic melt away. I could feel a ridiculous grin form on my face as I slid my hand to your side of the bed. The grin was lost quick when my hand found nothing more than sheets. I sat upright and looked over. You weren't there. I felt dizzy. I got up and saw your bag on a chair. I opened the door to the garage and the Jeep was still there. I went out the front door and was greeted by the dry heat. Shit! Where are you? I made my way around to the front of the motel and the owner came out and said good morning. "Morning", I replied though it could have been the afternoon for all I knew. My clock was out of whack and the bright Western sun was not helping. "You okay?" he asked. "Um, yeah. I guess. I don't know where the girl I came with is".  "Oh, your girlfriend walked down the street about an hour ago". He then introduced himself and started asking about our trip and such but my mind was in a buzzing haze. My girlfriend? I knew that was not the case but felt good to hear it. I started to wonder if I was still asleep as I strained my eyes down the road in the direction he said you had gone. I knew I was not still asleep when I caught sight of that Tangerine summer dress of yours. It seemed like you were adding humidity to our dry surroundings as you strolled up that street. It appeared to me that there was a slight mist surrounding you. I stuttered something to the guy and started walking towards you. I must have still looked lost because as I neared you, you said, "What's wrong baby?". "Nothing. Just didn't hear you leave and....". You just smiled and handed me a take out cup of coffee. "Here babe. You were resting so easy and I thought you might need the extra rest and a bit of caffeine". You put your hand on me, leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "After all, you were a bit of an animal last night". You cracked yourself up while grabbing my hand and lead me back to the Blue Swallow. On the walk back the night replayed in my mind. My grin started creeping back in. By the time we passed the owner, my face was sore from the silly grin that was plastered on it. "Ha! You look better Patrick. Glad you found your girl!" My girl? Again my head was spinning. You just tightened your grip on my hand and pulled me into the room. It felt surreal as I watched your hips twitch underneath that Tangerine smock. The old GE black metal fan on the desk whirred away. I stood there stiff as I wondered what the next move was. As you went out the garage door I wondered if it was time to move on. You came back in and put Thunder Road on my portable. No. Not time to move on just yet.  You let the Tangerine fall to the floor and I had no need for the silly cup in my hand. I put it down and realized I had the fever.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6571366696256986120?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6571366696256986120/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6571366696256986120' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6571366696256986120'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6571366696256986120'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/06/tears-on-wind-3.html' title='Kisses on the wind 3'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-3832978435511485262</id><published>2011-06-19T00:45:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-19T02:08:33.176-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Kisses on the wind part 2</title><content type='html'>I wasn't sure where we were heading. I knew our plan of camping all the way across was on hold. After I read the sign in New Mexico saying we couldn't build a fire, couldn't use a propane stove, could not smoke unless we were in our vehicle with the windows rolled up. That was enough for me. The drought that was strangling the south west was turning our camping into an adventure in misery. Flip the page, change the story. On to old 66 seemed the way to go. Let's slow this thing down and make the most of it. Luckily that last job in New York padded the wallet in case of an emergency. This might not have seemed like an emergency to most but it seemed pretty dire to me. I was not going to blaze past scenery just to get to the coast and escape the drought. Let's take 66 and stay in some iconic motel's from another time. You didn't even grumble as I changed course. You kicked off your sandals and put your pretty feet on my dash. The miles seemed effortless. Funny how distance has no meaning when you don't care where or how long it takes to get someplace.  I reached over and ran my hand through your tangled hair as we came into the first town. You woke up and shouted, "Hooray! That is the real deal! Sonic kiss my ass!" We rolled past the old drive up joint and smiled. I stopped and got us a shake and left a twenty on the counter. I was ready for a beer, not a shake but felt the need to keep that register ringing. The chains out on 40 were bleeding the locals on 66 dry. Not on my watch fuckers. Before we knew it the town was in the rear view and scrub weed and sand were all we could see. We rode a decent stretch before we had cause to slow down again. The sun was beating us up pretty bad and we both felt an escape was necessary.  Like a dream the little mom and pop places started appearing. We rode through gazing on a living museum. I felt the need to soak it all in. I just didn't know where to start. I reached for the lighter and when I looked up there it was. A perfect neon sign. The Blue Swallow was on our right. I jerked the wheel and slowly crunched along the asphalt to the entrance. A 66 Stingray was sitting under the over hang. The sign promised phone, TV, and garage. Garage? Yep every room came with a garage. I walked into the office expecting the place to be cost prohibitive. I walked out with a key to room 6. I asked the guy if you could really use the garage. Yep. Most people don't because they are small, but you are welcome to it. I carefully backed into the tight space and entered the room from the garage. You had already made a drink in a plastic cup and had discovered that the windows rolled out with little effort from an old crank. Sitting there with your feet on the windowsill, I felt like I was stumbling onto something that did not belong to me. I was right of course, but looking at those beautiful legs I knew I had to at least borrow you for a bit.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-3832978435511485262?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/3832978435511485262/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=3832978435511485262' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3832978435511485262'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3832978435511485262'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/06/kisses-on-wind-part-2.html' title='Kisses on the wind part 2'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1247452664240619568</id><published>2011-05-21T23:47:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-05-22T01:20:02.654-04:00</updated><title type='text'>My kisses are on the wind</title><content type='html'>We are in New Mexico. It is pretty much sand as far as you can see, except the body of water in front of us. It is man made and is a reservoir for a distant town. A young  guy came up to us earlier and had a couple of beers with us (my beers, fucking free loading hippie), and then left us with some mushrooms. After he left us, and with out much deliberation, we decided to eat the mushrooms. As they took affect the harvest moon was rising. It was huge and Orange in the sky like only a harvest moon can be. We could feel the pull of the plains hundreds of miles away. Yes. The harvest moon. Yes! Finally I was on the thresh hold of tasting my first kiss from your sweet lips. We pull a beer from the ice, light a smoke, and then I grab your hand and tell you we must walk toward the moon. It is true but it is also my way of getting you on your feet so I can eventually pull you close to me. We stumble across the sand and find that the moon has led us to the reservoir. We have to go in I say. You put a steely glance on me that leaves it all to me. I give my clothes to the sand and jump in. You follow my lead. Eventually we come together in the water. It is nervous and sweetly innocent at once. The water is chilly after driving through the dry hot desert all day. Our lips are purple by the light of the harvest moon. With teeth slightly chatterirn we pull close for some innocent body heat. The chilly water is up to our shoulders, a moving sand is under our feet, and we are holding the only thing that makes sense. After thirteen states I find the moment that is not only perfect, but I will be punished for making the wrong choice. I wrap my arm around the small of your back and pull you in for our first kiss. It is nice but awkward as we both pull away.  We both remember there was a reason we had never done this before. We both laugh. I swim on my back and kick some water in your direction. You laugh and mimic me. Now that we are laughing and playing I feel free. Now I grab you and really kiss you. The moon quietly rises as we find something. Are lips are not cold and purple anymore. We make our way back in. You grab a towel out of the Jeep and I grab some more wood to throw on the fire. We settle down with our shoulders barely touching. Neither of us know what to say. We start a smoke before I realize we should have a short glass of whiskey. I lurch up and get the bottle and two small glasses. As I pour it the smokey aroma has us looking forward. I settle back down and this time our hips are touching. We clink glass but before you can drink it, I say, kiss me again. You bat those unforgettable eyes, smile, and lean into me. You laugh and take a swig of whiskey. I follow suit. Good choice, the mouths are warm now. Ten years and thirteen states, I finally get my kiss. We lay back in the sand and look at the moon. We are holding hands, don't know quite what we are doing, feel overwhelmed, but also feel at ease. We are at the right place. Everything else is going to have to catch up with a fast moving road show. You suggest we go to the tent but I want to lay outside a bit longer. You agree and put your head on my shoulder. You say, "Patrick tell me a story". "Babe", I respond. "this is the story. Once it plays out, I will tell it to you". I feel like I could tell you many stories but I am consumed with the one that is being written righ in front of me. I would ruin it and tell you I love you too soon. I choose to be quiet. I ask you to hush. We will be in the tent soon. For now listen to the wind sweeping in.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1247452664240619568?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1247452664240619568/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1247452664240619568' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1247452664240619568'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1247452664240619568'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/05/my-kisses-are-on-wind.html' title='My kisses are on the wind'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2033398476844840787</id><published>2011-01-17T00:04:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2011-01-17T00:12:49.063-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Woods</title><content type='html'>Midnight and felt like the sun was around the corner. Trying to beat the rays through my blinds while I thought of you. There was no traveling going to save the heel. As I curled my toes in pain, your face floated to me. I wanted nothing more than to run through the woods to you. No one told me that they had burnt down. I choked as I spoke your name out loud. Done coughing I squeeze my ribs and wonder.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2033398476844840787?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2033398476844840787/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2033398476844840787' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2033398476844840787'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2033398476844840787'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/01/woods.html' title='Woods'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-945486836188235775</id><published>2011-01-16T23:51:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2011-01-17T00:04:02.378-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Genessee</title><content type='html'>The chain for the neon Genessee sign is pulled and my set is just beginning to play. I need to walk across the stained floor. I hear the door being pulled closed and bolted as I brace for the night air. I can't move though. I could feel my beard growing as my nails dug into the bar. As I pulled myself up the bartender called me Jim and asked if I wanted one for the road. I could enjoy my set if I ignored the mopping.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-945486836188235775?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/945486836188235775/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=945486836188235775' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/945486836188235775'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/945486836188235775'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/01/genessee.html' title='Genessee'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6132340658795964543</id><published>2011-01-16T23:41:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2011-01-16T23:51:12.436-05:00</updated><title type='text'>14 blocks</title><content type='html'>The frost was quickening my pulse. I had impulsively ran out the door with out enough on. The cold was like steel hitting me. I had gone fourteen blocks before I realized I was chasing a dream I had already woke up from. I didn't like the reality of the situation and wished I was still a sleep. There was nothing left to do as I contemplated my own punishment.  It would come slowly, but it would surely come. I gritted my teeth and headed back.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6132340658795964543?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6132340658795964543/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6132340658795964543' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6132340658795964543'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6132340658795964543'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2011/01/14-blocks.html' title='14 blocks'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6793872320720623583</id><published>2010-05-05T02:24:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2010-05-05T02:35:56.208-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Too tired to do anything but write. Too tired to make the right choices. My voice will crackle against the tired paper. I will pant and cuss before I fall. You will imagine what I am going to say next. You will be right. I should stop wasting your time.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6793872320720623583?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6793872320720623583/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6793872320720623583' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6793872320720623583'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6793872320720623583'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2010/05/too-tired-to-do-anything-but-write.html' title=''/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1425590704309186453</id><published>2009-02-04T03:16:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-02-04T03:57:42.586-05:00</updated><title type='text'>ER</title><content type='html'>His hands were steady as he pulled another knot tight on my cheek. I felt a drop of blood fall as he tightend it. The shot, the booze, my hard headedness, took the pain out of it. Just one more interuption in an otherwise good night of drinking. The ER had taken way too long. I was ready to leave a long time ago. I let others convince me that this was the best option. Must stop bleeding! I was not going to bleed to death. They were afraid my scar was going to be too much. I was missing the moan of the street and couldn't think of charisma lost. The nurse dabbed my face with what smelt like an iodine soaked gauze. My belly rumbled for a hambuger as my loins screamed out for pussy. It was something about laying there some what in others control that sent my mind scittering. I really did want a burger. I really did need a woman. Being inert opened the neediest chanels. I could move but was not allowed to. I found I was hungry for the most basic of needs. My friend took me around the corner to a Greek diner and insisted we have a burger. He was old fashion in the sense that if you loose blood you must eat meat. We did just that. I would have never escaped his kindness if I hadn't slipped out to the street while he was washing his hands. The cool sunny air kissed me good morning and whispered promises of complete healing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1425590704309186453?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1425590704309186453/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1425590704309186453' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1425590704309186453'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1425590704309186453'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2009/02/er.html' title='ER'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-157712940293779498</id><published>2009-02-04T02:25:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-02-04T02:44:00.392-05:00</updated><title type='text'>whisper</title><content type='html'>The sun rose, the sun set. What I saw would stagger most. If I knew how to apologize for beauty I would, I don't. Staggering to find my feet, struggling for breath, I wonder if what I saw was true. No such beauty could be marked with paint and brush, no such stride could be replicated. The whisper, the moan, the kiss, the neck, leaves me feeling naked. Let me whisper once in that ear and I am sure I will make a fool of myself.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-157712940293779498?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/157712940293779498/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=157712940293779498' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/157712940293779498'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/157712940293779498'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2009/02/whisper.html' title='whisper'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4694043568661752680</id><published>2009-01-17T02:27:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-17T02:40:39.888-05:00</updated><title type='text'>brutish</title><content type='html'>To unfold thoughts on such a beauty would be brutish.Hard handed and coarse I walk by. The heart stings as each step rings. To breathe, to whisper, it is much more difficult. Truth fumbles on lips. Sun sets on your golden hair.My whisper is swept away.The kiss is stolen by the forgotten wind.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4694043568661752680?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4694043568661752680/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4694043568661752680' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4694043568661752680'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4694043568661752680'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2009/01/brutish.html' title='brutish'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2302129846296939677</id><published>2009-01-11T05:33:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-11T05:54:17.837-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Fool</title><content type='html'>Fallen and forgotten fragance of the untied hair left y0u spinning. How could y0u fool? With windows closed and eyes opened you stepped past the whisper and kiss. Not your fault as you found your fist. Pitiful. Tears not sworn by promises leave you feeling a bit rotten. Swollen and tired you stab at it one more time. No one sees as you dizzly leave.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2302129846296939677?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2302129846296939677/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2302129846296939677' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2302129846296939677'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2302129846296939677'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2009/01/fool.html' title='Fool'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1871427136285469716</id><published>2009-01-02T02:43:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-01-02T02:58:06.120-05:00</updated><title type='text'>tooth</title><content type='html'>slant eyed and stumbling I approached the dawn. Not what I expected but I was not dissapointed. As the new day approached I wondered which feather to pet and which tooth to avoid. I was not bitten nor was I sworn. Much the same had happened,but it was new as the first time. I swore I would not make that  mistake again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1871427136285469716?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1871427136285469716/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1871427136285469716' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1871427136285469716'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1871427136285469716'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2009/01/tooth.html' title='tooth'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-3470670250702559675</id><published>2008-06-08T04:22:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-12-10T02:12:03.419-05:00</updated><title type='text'>el</title><content type='html'>Was there anything that couldn't be done. That long lean back turning the earth, turning minds young and old. More graceful than the best dancer, thoughts that make a scholar feel lazy, stamina that would make a boxer stumble. The beauty of a rained upon pine. The fragrance, unforgetable. Forgive me for being lost in her beauty.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-3470670250702559675?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/3470670250702559675/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=3470670250702559675' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3470670250702559675'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3470670250702559675'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/06/el.html' title='el'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8812354340375016659</id><published>2008-06-08T02:53:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-06-08T03:27:45.709-04:00</updated><title type='text'>bow first</title><content type='html'>Sun baked mind, far fetched eyes, crippled gesture. Billow, bellow, ball, fall down false prince. Forgotten language, imagined past, forged future. Water rushing, back straining, eel traps dead ahead. Course cleared, brow wiped, struggle now with that grip. Blister, a bit of pain, fatigue haunts. Tongue to broken tooth, smell the sweet sulfur, bow first into the swirlling eddy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8812354340375016659?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8812354340375016659/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8812354340375016659' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8812354340375016659'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8812354340375016659'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/06/bow-first.html' title='bow first'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4342894438298671223</id><published>2008-05-11T04:22:00.005-04:00</published><updated>2009-01-30T03:07:36.707-05:00</updated><title type='text'>bit spit pony</title><content type='html'>The implosion of brilliance strained by the sheer beauty bleached all darkness from her eyes.The trip taken, the path, the course, the purpose, all was wavering. A sip, a kiss, a caress, a smoky rumination of a bit spit pony. The pissing cold rain all the sudden made sense.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4342894438298671223?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4342894438298671223/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4342894438298671223' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4342894438298671223'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4342894438298671223'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/05/bit-spit-pony.html' title='bit spit pony'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-7131251593278404045</id><published>2008-03-07T00:33:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-07T00:51:47.727-05:00</updated><title type='text'>grasping</title><content type='html'>Fresh fallen slush gives away as you take a sip of warmth. Who would not want to join you? Those portals you peek through leave the rest wondering how to sidle up to such sweet water.  Is it possible to  know  I wonder as  I drag my muddy hoe through. As the time slipped away I knew there must be a way to kiss that broken jaw. The same jaw that broke me. Grasping for thoughts as we traded glances and smoke, I wondered if perhaps I was the only living boy in New York.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-7131251593278404045?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/7131251593278404045/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=7131251593278404045' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7131251593278404045'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7131251593278404045'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/03/grasping.html' title='grasping'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-582209816668527676</id><published>2008-03-07T00:05:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-07T00:26:19.875-05:00</updated><title type='text'>punctured</title><content type='html'>I shouldn't have, but I put the totem back together tonight. Did I feel the energy or simply sit by as my thoughts became mute? My hand was steady and that old wood gave a familiar and calming scent. The chaos was charmed in my unmoving hand. Warm and steady, an unfamiliar sensation graciously punctured me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-582209816668527676?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/582209816668527676/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=582209816668527676' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/582209816668527676'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/582209816668527676'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/03/punctured.html' title='punctured'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8563762461808837080</id><published>2008-03-03T02:14:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-03T02:43:15.217-05:00</updated><title type='text'>set out</title><content type='html'>Is this the price, she asked me. Must I stretch and find every curve just to find a place to rest and sob? How come I can not find the simple laughs like others? The blandness of my cover showed the holes. Where the stars peaked through I dared not whisper. My tears were not warm enough to keep her safe. I wanted to kiss and dared not speak. I did flutter, though. I could not mistake such eyes. I knew I was done as I stuttered something forgotten. How could I say something when the accounting of me was being hosed clean? As my tears of her crusted my pillow, I tried to remember why I had voice left at all. I drew one last memory of her lips, and set out to forget.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8563762461808837080?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8563762461808837080/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8563762461808837080' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8563762461808837080'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8563762461808837080'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/03/is-this-price-she-asked-me.html' title='set out'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4696745231427829380</id><published>2008-03-02T07:21:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-07T01:20:14.111-05:00</updated><title type='text'>beauty</title><content type='html'>bottle neck squeezed me for the last shine. Didn't need it but took it. Better than one more useless song hitting the street. Lyrics were burping as I tried to bridge your beauty with my words. Could I cut the rope and float down your running river? In the spinning eddy I found I was truly lost. Could I kiss that jaw? Could I lend a lean shoulder to your cause?  Would you know that this not your poem? As  I repair to some semblance of a man, I am torn down by such beauty. Burn I must, I suppose. Not a hand does this one reach for, merely casting stones into such a  clear stream. Your hair tied up, your glistening eyes, your Maker's, your pin stripes, your too cold shoes...allow me to write you a song. One such as you deserves a song of their own. I will sing that song beauty.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4696745231427829380?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4696745231427829380/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4696745231427829380' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4696745231427829380'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4696745231427829380'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/03/beauty.html' title='beauty'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4086746154570364884</id><published>2008-03-02T06:37:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-02T06:51:04.369-05:00</updated><title type='text'>sum girls</title><content type='html'>I could see nothing but the copper window I stared up into. Your eyes were not as clear as the reflection of that startlingly cold morning. My sweat was quickly becoming an icy blanket of regret. What do you take me for? I scream this as I imagine I am still massaging your toes. To wake with nothing in my lap reminds me why you prefer hot chocolate.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4086746154570364884?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4086746154570364884/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4086746154570364884' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4086746154570364884'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4086746154570364884'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/03/sum-girls.html' title='sum girls'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-5999934447073987659</id><published>2008-02-29T00:57:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-29T01:06:33.306-05:00</updated><title type='text'>borrowed</title><content type='html'>Flush with joy today and I realized it had nothing to do with you. Until I realized it, of course. Empty sweep of a dirty room I longed for. The flutter of my mind was not enough to bring the sun I hoped to wake up to. One morning left as I stretched and shivered under that borrowed blanket.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-5999934447073987659?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/5999934447073987659/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=5999934447073987659' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/5999934447073987659'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/5999934447073987659'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/borrowed.html' title='borrowed'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1669787356524579339</id><published>2008-02-26T00:48:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-26T11:13:40.583-05:00</updated><title type='text'>bsuce</title><content type='html'>Sprained winged traveler                &lt;br /&gt;   foot don't fail&lt;br /&gt;       frosted lip&lt;br /&gt;dusted wing&lt;br /&gt;   unhinged lyric&lt;br /&gt;       sing your sweet song&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1669787356524579339?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1669787356524579339/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1669787356524579339' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1669787356524579339'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1669787356524579339'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/bsuce.html' title='bsuce'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-3238392751690811165</id><published>2008-02-22T01:59:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-23T19:50:52.439-05:00</updated><title type='text'>powder</title><content type='html'>blue eyes, how you made me swallow what I wanted to spit. Travel with me with a laugh and wink.  I sat in the back of that van as the snow fell, I was almost there. Sam begged for my sandwich, I blindly dreamed of everything I was headed for. The fear of lies never entered. Blind and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;deaf&lt;/span&gt; I flew to our engagement. If only I had heard, if only I had seen, if only I had smelled the powder of your mind.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-3238392751690811165?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/3238392751690811165/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=3238392751690811165' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3238392751690811165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3238392751690811165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/powder.html' title='powder'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-925740837374383937</id><published>2008-02-22T01:09:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-22T01:30:41.210-05:00</updated><title type='text'>brandished with spit</title><content type='html'>Haven't seen the tender side of my hand in a while. Works been coarse, my mind bruised. Our last smoke was brandished with spit. Did not matter the directions we split. You ended where you will, maybe tell me. I ended shaken and stiff. Nonsense got tossed at the last curve. I hoped to find you with a thumb out stretched but the road was beautifully quiet. In the quiet and darkness I forgot I was looking for anything at all. Peace seeped into me as the wind kissed my face. The flickering nothingness became mesmerizing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-925740837374383937?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/925740837374383937/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=925740837374383937' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/925740837374383937'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/925740837374383937'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/brandished-with-spit.html' title='brandished with spit'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-564675996677539291</id><published>2008-02-19T04:25:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-19T04:34:59.430-05:00</updated><title type='text'>ran</title><content type='html'>as they ran, I could not keep up with the tears. The race was set before the stretch.  Before I could stumble, the wind was stolen. No lean meat was left. The feast was over as soon as it started. Hungry shank of what you wanted was not wasted, for it was not tasted. The heat could not be bought with simple winks, this was for real. Your neck was wet honestly.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-564675996677539291?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/564675996677539291/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=564675996677539291' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/564675996677539291'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/564675996677539291'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/ran.html' title='ran'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6799737410809239845</id><published>2008-02-15T02:46:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-26T11:29:58.758-05:00</updated><title type='text'>mouth breather</title><content type='html'>No one shocks to shock. No one shocks. Flags of independence are only one more sheet I have soiled. Screw your bulbs one more time. Replace your 60 watt with a 40 watt and you have accomplished something so many have searched so long for. You have dialed it down. Good for all of us. Thank you. Turn the light back on and see what is left. Same compatriots waiting to take up your non cause?  It's ok mouth breather, rest easy, no one cares.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6799737410809239845?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6799737410809239845/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6799737410809239845' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6799737410809239845'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6799737410809239845'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/mouth-breather.html' title='mouth breather'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8379625003230922713</id><published>2008-02-15T02:33:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-15T02:41:21.698-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Horace</title><content type='html'>Horace the walrus felt complete. Fish in the shack and ice on the bridge. Fire in his eye and ice in his loins was the key. Or was it vice versus?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8379625003230922713?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8379625003230922713/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8379625003230922713' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8379625003230922713'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8379625003230922713'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/horace.html' title='Horace'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-818576145749191985</id><published>2008-02-15T01:54:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-15T02:22:24.378-05:00</updated><title type='text'>shot</title><content type='html'>zig zagged split attention. run, pant, think, move blindly anyway. step or not to step. what is the peril? what is the joy? Look. see. Look. don't. can't live in service, can you live in freedom? fodder feed or god fear? bullet holes show where your mind escaped. bring anything with it? no one cares, maybe you would like to see the proof. where did you see who you have become? talk gibberish to me one more time, one more time before my paitence is spent. stagger all you want, i wont leave my knife in your back. Start all over again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-818576145749191985?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/818576145749191985/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=818576145749191985' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/818576145749191985'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/818576145749191985'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/shot.html' title='shot'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1760381687879566898</id><published>2008-02-11T01:13:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-11T01:34:07.090-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Gene</title><content type='html'>You don't know how to curl your fist. Have you ever steered the back of the truck? Ever burnt out a stump with a graveyard fix in the middle? Bat in one hand as you threaten the boy. One more step and I go and get the shotgun...........................................................Two blows and peace with the man. Vanilla tobacco curled from his peaceful pipe. No re-payment was asked for.  You been favoring that shoulder long enough boy, get up!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1760381687879566898?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1760381687879566898/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1760381687879566898' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1760381687879566898'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1760381687879566898'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/gene.html' title='Gene'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-3108418206670058605</id><published>2008-02-11T00:36:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-11T00:50:09.650-05:00</updated><title type='text'>effecitively</title><content type='html'>As i effectively dissolve your thoughts ,I swallow the pill of your wandering. Your face you found is not my fortune. Turn and spin and turn and run. Your billowing locklets was the only price worth paying. The belly slide this side of giddy was all I wanted you to leave me with anyway. Can you purse your purple lips one more time baby?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-3108418206670058605?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/3108418206670058605/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=3108418206670058605' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3108418206670058605'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3108418206670058605'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/effecitively.html' title='effecitively'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4020245639262516461</id><published>2008-02-10T20:56:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-10T21:03:02.391-05:00</updated><title type='text'>slipped</title><content type='html'>I watched as the waves ripped across the billboard project. Neil sung to me from Massey. A touch of melancholy but I did not feel helpless. The purple sky had changed for the eighth time. I had changed as drastically as the snow, wind, sun, snow patterns. As I settled down, my heart swelled, my mind swam. The light slipped away and I wonder if it took you with it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4020245639262516461?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4020245639262516461/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4020245639262516461' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4020245639262516461'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4020245639262516461'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/slipped.html' title='slipped'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-7453750628440715079</id><published>2008-02-06T23:21:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-06T23:38:17.964-05:00</updated><title type='text'>almost</title><content type='html'>Almost lost one of the greats today. Some ass almost squandered what was not theirs to squander. Pay attention the next time you grip that wheel and hit the right peddle instead of the left. That blown by sign, crush of noise, explosion of glass and air bags, dizzying array of time suspended, might be more than a mistake to someone else. Might be a rope tied to one of the buckets of life that you just dropped to the bottom of the well. Well you can guess how I would suck the marrow of your soul dry. Don't try to pay for something you can not afford. Don't take what you can not replace. Don't make excuses, look straight ahead and take a walk with me. Maybe I can explain.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-7453750628440715079?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/7453750628440715079/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=7453750628440715079' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7453750628440715079'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7453750628440715079'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/almost.html' title='almost'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6937546306501102900</id><published>2008-02-06T23:01:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-06T23:18:07.065-05:00</updated><title type='text'>yellow room</title><content type='html'>The yellow room will always be there. Much passed across that old table, much kicked beneath it. What was ate, what was drank, what was sung, what was left out? Yellow room was stolen and squandered by fools. Tied that old table to my back, carry it to this day. Do you know how it sings sometimes? Pushes me right along with a tear stained smile. Close to putting the legs back on that old girl. One night, one tale, one more start. The color of the room will be stitched together by our joy. Steal that fool, steal that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6937546306501102900?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6937546306501102900/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6937546306501102900' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6937546306501102900'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6937546306501102900'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/yellow-room.html' title='yellow room'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4729607562729531421</id><published>2008-02-03T02:08:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-03T02:21:54.297-05:00</updated><title type='text'>ain't enough</title><content type='html'>that ain't enough she said as I emptied my pockets. Feeling a tad lost and small, I croaked a stifled reply. She spoke as the wind came in. I immediately was distracted. Nothing left to do I thought as I sung and picked my shoe heels clean.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4729607562729531421?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4729607562729531421/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4729607562729531421' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4729607562729531421'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4729607562729531421'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/aint-enough.html' title='ain&apos;t enough'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-867984414241800592</id><published>2008-02-01T01:30:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-03T01:34:03.022-05:00</updated><title type='text'>black eyes</title><content type='html'>dreams of you. walks with the bitter wind. kiss of what you get. I cried not easy, you returned the favor with a tear. No one was upset. Red hair and blue tears guided me to the door. Black and blue eyes made my trip down the stairs memorable. Sniff not what you can not smell,  I think you blindly said. Flip the quarter, find tails, you find me.  Is that not the map you left me with? Red eyed I fall into the blown up bed of your inspirations. Air don't whistle your secrets. Much as I thought, I could not find you in the folds.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-867984414241800592?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/867984414241800592/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=867984414241800592' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/867984414241800592'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/867984414241800592'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/black-eyes.html' title='black eyes'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1103065039154585527</id><published>2008-02-01T01:18:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-01T01:29:39.100-05:00</updated><title type='text'>fake bones</title><content type='html'>limp legged and pitiful you cross my line. paitence you depend on. sleep is not your fear as you approach me. ragged and runny eyed you sob your tale. for the fear of your dark, i whisper a lie. my cuff is spared momentarily. I cut as you bite. Whom was saved?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1103065039154585527?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1103065039154585527/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1103065039154585527' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1103065039154585527'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1103065039154585527'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/fake-bones.html' title='fake bones'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-3249731789364836371</id><published>2008-02-01T01:08:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-06T22:50:27.487-05:00</updated><title type='text'>rings red</title><content type='html'>For the lonely eye. Confess the blue. Hug the empty wind. Sing your blue song till it rings red. Nothing left to tell you. Which flower did you hope to smell anyway? Just go ahead.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-3249731789364836371?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/3249731789364836371/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=3249731789364836371' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3249731789364836371'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/3249731789364836371'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/02/rings-red.html' title='rings red'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-6284587252807658214</id><published>2008-01-21T23:36:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-23T23:14:53.319-05:00</updated><title type='text'>careful that</title><content type='html'>The glint of your teeth told me it was right. Exhilarated  I steadied. You still shook. Kiss of sweat slowly cooled. Reluctantly pulled the cover across my sight. Fingers trembled as the last touch was stolen. I tread away as you cough you may have fallen. Careful that. Im on the cold street wiping last sip of red from my lips. Conclusions are useless. My step rings certain. It hits me too late. Falling into the leaves I breath in your musk.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-6284587252807658214?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/6284587252807658214/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=6284587252807658214' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6284587252807658214'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/6284587252807658214'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/careful-that.html' title='careful that'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8480998826484916214</id><published>2008-01-21T23:20:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-22T00:06:47.003-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The Q</title><content type='html'>Hurtling towards her on the Q. Children singing the alphabet behind me. Character from a Homer painting across from me. The rhythm of the rails rattling a forgotten feeling. New sounds, old sounds, sweet sounds. Song finding its footing. Knew what I had to do. How I missed you. How I ached. I could not acknowledge these feelings without you a breath away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8480998826484916214?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8480998826484916214/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8480998826484916214' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8480998826484916214'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8480998826484916214'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/q.html' title='The Q'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-5573742399354438451</id><published>2008-01-18T01:11:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-21T22:04:24.992-05:00</updated><title type='text'>not what you came here for</title><content type='html'>Saving face is not an option. The country is on a slippery slope. Idiots have steered my steel &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;chevy&lt;/span&gt; into the ditch.  My money means nothing. My labor means less. My sweat has no equity. On top of my craft yet at the bottom of the pile. Idiots feed and drink off my back blindly. Am I not supposed to take note? Are you? The next slew of contenders are worthless. We are in  for the long haul if we have any hope for change in this &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;brilliant&lt;/span&gt; country I call home. I don't believe in homegrown, aw shucks I  love this country cause &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;im&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;merican&lt;/span&gt; god &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;damnit&lt;/span&gt;! I believe in this place for many reasons. My family was always barely getting by. Good schools were the path out of a meager existence. I got a fairly good and completely free education. I am sad to see what most kids are getting fed as education today. Are we on a path to raise the dumbest generation yet? If we are, to what end? Are our children to be led by the noses and made to believe that they are part of a democracy? A controlled situation where you believe you make a difference does not constitute democracy. I don't have a kid and the situation scares the shit out of me. I don't need one of my own to be concerned. This situation is hairy. Do I need to offer a good cup of coffee to you sleepy jokers? Guess what, the time to wake the fuck up is past. Look past your 401k, your leather seats and flat screens, reality is barrelling towards us. If you don't want to wake up long enough for yourself, put a bit of effort in for your child. Somehow we have stuck our heads so far up our asses that we feel &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;ok&lt;/span&gt; with the way the ship is being sunk. A new captain can't save this unfortunate sail, it's going to take a mighty effort from the crew.        Just fell through my soap box... so get back to ramblin.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-5573742399354438451?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/5573742399354438451/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=5573742399354438451' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/5573742399354438451'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/5573742399354438451'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/not-what-you-came-here-for.html' title='not what you came here for'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-7723769543317029429</id><published>2008-01-18T01:04:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-18T01:09:49.640-05:00</updated><title type='text'>nearly</title><content type='html'>The shaking hips of that honey will pollute my mind till it extinguishes. Not bad pollution. To scan my innards would ruin most. It is too much. It has nearly ruined me and I chose every step.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-7723769543317029429?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/7723769543317029429/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=7723769543317029429' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7723769543317029429'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7723769543317029429'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/nearly.html' title='nearly'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-8283952446681956121</id><published>2008-01-17T00:39:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-17T00:53:10.091-05:00</updated><title type='text'>muffled eyes</title><content type='html'>You were sad to see that low hung moon. It pierced the window. Ciao bella luna! Your eyes muffled, your ears blind. No hot tear was going to fall. My lungs heaved as my hand shook. I was not shining with much light. The whisper was a choke. Thunder clapped in that clear sky.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-8283952446681956121?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/8283952446681956121/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=8283952446681956121' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8283952446681956121'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/8283952446681956121'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/muffled-eyes.html' title='muffled eyes'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-5364794557695616940</id><published>2008-01-16T02:04:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-16T02:15:15.490-05:00</updated><title type='text'>burp of ignorance</title><content type='html'>The cough of brillance. The burp of ignorance. The bubbling up of my stupidity. The gap that is my mind. The float that is your paddle. The canvass we stare at blankly. Toss your paint at will. Follow me. Or lead.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-5364794557695616940?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/5364794557695616940/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=5364794557695616940' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/5364794557695616940'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/5364794557695616940'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/burp-of-ignorance.html' title='burp of ignorance'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-4872071141034096763</id><published>2008-01-15T02:37:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-17T21:53:06.298-05:00</updated><title type='text'>319 and wallow</title><content type='html'>Ten cent songs and dollar thoughts rudely billow past my cage. No peck left in the order. Cat walking across the keys leaves my ear with an original song. Sorry I wasn't there. My heart and mind spit and shook and then found different trains. Both had working class tickets, left me with a first class ticket to good old lonely emptiness. As the burnt out landscape of loneliness trucked past  I found I was not empty &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;after all&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-4872071141034096763?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/4872071141034096763/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=4872071141034096763' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4872071141034096763'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/4872071141034096763'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/319-and-wallow.html' title='319 and wallow'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-7552262603929381535</id><published>2008-01-15T02:12:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-16T00:07:46.459-05:00</updated><title type='text'>precision angel</title><content type='html'>Tear up the letter. Throw your panties onto the turnpike. Talk has melted. Smear your makeup. I saved a hair, I couldn't swallow it. Renew your scent. Shy does not suit you. Cut cut fun fun bleed bleed, had your share. Precision angel you are. Precision angel you must. Too many answers, not too many questions.  Find me amongst the lead. Loose me in your breath.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-7552262603929381535?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/7552262603929381535/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=7552262603929381535' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7552262603929381535'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/7552262603929381535'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/precision-angel.html' title='precision angel'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-467332543926937328</id><published>2008-01-15T01:40:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-15T01:55:20.348-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Fear of feed</title><content type='html'>First fire on the wire.  Plugged into bright emptiness. Full notebook weeps as my tips stumble.  Joy of chaos is saddle worn and all my tricks are barn sour. Gonna have to ride this one in without reins of any sort. Sock full of soap and a real rain. Sloshing in my saddle, lost but for the slant gaze. Fear of feed makes not my steed weep. Not such a short ride as I cross the arid absence of your imagination.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-467332543926937328?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/467332543926937328/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=467332543926937328' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/467332543926937328'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/467332543926937328'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/fear-of-feed.html' title='Fear of feed'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-1290330816181977621</id><published>2008-01-15T01:14:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-18T00:48:45.368-05:00</updated><title type='text'>clowns</title><content type='html'>The suck face of your comfortable love is not smoke from my pipe. The ass slap of good love clowns is not my sleep. Dream away the import of your step. My &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;patience&lt;/span&gt; is spent. Lay it down clown. Am I listening? Is anyone?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-1290330816181977621?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/1290330816181977621/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=1290330816181977621' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1290330816181977621'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/1290330816181977621'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/clowns.html' title='clowns'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-2242614325224363412</id><published>2008-01-14T08:04:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-01-16T00:23:00.290-05:00</updated><title type='text'>explain</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;as my eyes bleed, my veins ran to the river.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The huff of my lung was the crest of the bridge.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The soles of my feet were lost.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;Fingerprints were naught but a memory.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;Tears were my river,  doubt was my oar, explain was the name of my canoe.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-2242614325224363412?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/2242614325224363412/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=2242614325224363412' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2242614325224363412'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/2242614325224363412'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/explained.html' title='explain'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8380657324001112643.post-982147779959481526</id><published>2008-01-14T07:56:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2008-02-29T00:27:46.973-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Kevin's Swim</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;To swim into the rip current is the only choice.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;If a man is not about to drown, than the man is not about to live.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The push is the only way to find the give.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The breath is had when the surface is broke.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The kiss in the shadow?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;OK for a moment.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The embrace will save you. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;"&gt;The breath, the grasp, the sigh---that is all.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8380657324001112643-982147779959481526?l=psifinishes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/feeds/982147779959481526/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8380657324001112643&amp;postID=982147779959481526' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/982147779959481526'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8380657324001112643/posts/default/982147779959481526'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://psifinishes.blogspot.com/2008/01/kevins-swim.html' title='Kevin&apos;s Swim'/><author><name>Patrick</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14403191038025547729</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_tENPNnfty-I/R8emSBedKlI/AAAAAAAAAAM/7u3zkrc3tS0/S220/IMG_1309.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
