Thursday, February 11, 2016


On sonia's first night I was riding the bus, sober, getting home for free
her father was this drunkard, red face down on his back in cold water flats
stitched with yellow buttons, his buttonless peacoat, flapped, freely, torn,
at the crest of hill on 244 VA local inland road only sidewalked no grass,
we both walked the night, I couldn't see Dc anymore for this wired fence,
I've never seen St Petersburg in the rain but I know either is there, or neither one;

A hand around a pot on a mug is a hand on a thigh on a cunt on a heart
and everywhere the eye judges, distance, color, morality, stone, immortality
rearranging what is and what's not, interchangeably,
hoarding those pieces that make sense.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

It was worse

when I plunged the tin-foil American sword
--branded with American brand names--into the
monsters chest I cried, I sweated, I cried,
there in the crooked rotted house
four floors up, barred windows and
this, eventhough I knew it had to be done,
I couldn't bring myself until a moment, finally,
it was us or him, and me or them, for why,
and it took forever to leverage the thin
blade in and deep past bone and draw out the red
but I put my weight into it like you said and my vision, blurred,
and the white and blue and red of the flag bubbled, turned,
there were no screams, no hate, rather, begrudging acceptance; death.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

As He Stares

he stares into the blank rectangle of night
making out thin shapes,
there are those that sleep all around him,
she is one,
he is without, not sexless, but;
many are the disembodied sounds
unkempt out and down and below,
where do they all go and why, he thinks,
is there anything left to accomplish, it is so late
and work is done and day is done too and only
will come again and again and like this again,
she is smiling beside him in dream,
just vibrating colors indigo violet black blotches,
there is a film of light glimmer from the street lamp
reflected off the telephone pole transformer,
in the morning you'll be gray, he thinks,
and you and you and I will be gray also, but not yet,
now you are nothing I can see or be or have,
he holds her tight,
good night, she says, go to sleep,
you know it's getting late, as
he stares into the blank rectangle of night

Friday, February 5, 2016

I cry when I'm reading about death

I cry when I'm reading about death.

     maybe you think, and then, just maybe, you say to me
that isn't it possible, that after all, you are a bit too sensitive
     and maybe you're right about that and maybe I am too sensitive
that death on the page would make me cry
     but I also want to cry when I cannot cry
 and I can't seem to cry for anything real.


if you sea can you sing
for the home of the nation
of the brave warriors trampled
underfoot wounded say
                                       to the
nearest official in camouflage blue
there in the dawn's early light
an unattended brown bag of skin
with bombs bursting inside
                                             no proof
in the night that our flag was still red
but the bodies it's jackknifed into
still bled
                safety is a national psychological
disorder associated with freedom
                                                      and only
vigilant profiling of the enemy can guarantee
that our economy was still there O say does
that Exxon-mobile banner yet wave
                                                          O'er lines
etched in ink and the white haired men in gray suits.

For Balloon  on his centennial +2   

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

among the old there were memories of a leviathan

they whisper, the towering figure on the mound
where he stood, they didn't see it, it was maybe
their mother's mother's grandfather, when the village was founded?
no, the village has always been here, by the mound,
at the foot of the white foam and the sea, they say
that is why we carry the old wood plank up the hill,
they say it is on the anniversary of his coming,
what does the plank mean, where did you find it?
oh it must have been from atop the mound, they say
my grandfather brought it down, but that doesn't seem
right, they say he stood there, and they say he left,
no one saw him go, he was just a spirit and he was gone,
that is why we bring him the gift, they say,
because he was here and then from nowhere he was gone.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

only the vagueness, the blur.

this is just like some things I'm saying and how it doesn't make sense.
if you'd turn around and facing let the sand and wind hit your back.
were there days that crisp and clear could be understood. that would be easier.
with that we know is coming I don't know what to say. my words aren't right.
we could go on like none of this happened if it were simpler and I might have said no.
the goal and it seems we remove our body from it entirely is a vague acceptance.
time has never asked me how I felt in the morning at sunrise. neither I think have you.

Monday, February 1, 2016

these are the roads to heaven

atop the lofty
gold beringed clouds
of montana flat lands
sits a lonesome figure.

she looks out, ahead,
ascetically, almost bored,
at the spinning wheel of the
blue sky looking back.

that which is time is not.
that which becomes space is not.

"from here," she says,
"I can see the diamond star,
the swirling wisps of unborn galaxies,
the deathlike blackness of space."

Saturday, January 30, 2016

South Gate Rd. Sentences

Ivory totems on ivory hills left to feed the gods of war,
mourned by withered wreaths and crimson bows.

* * *
a word written in snow, or was it the way the sun revealed the grass?

* * * 
fenced in, thrown out,
          the land and debris of america;
buried and hidden from sight.

* * *
the snow is as flat and blue as the afternoon sky.

Horror of the awful power under the mountain

glowworm moss,
green and vibrating
off skyscraping rocks,
split through craggy skull like lightning
taller than the tallest man,
heavy cloud shapes
spewed by primal cliff-face,
foggy mists to feed the
starving trees of the highest altitude,
the never melted snow,
feet after feet deep,
as light struggles through
twisted and white, fitted with seed,
rain drops play on fern leaves,
ancient stems dip into
rolling stream bedded with slick rock,
bordered by wet mud,
sunk with grizzly bear prints

what was the world at the end of it, were the days the same for all.

quiet here in the dark,
and the snow,
beneath me,
and tho my window closed, I can sense it
as something cold,
unforgiving, as it stretches white
over miles, highways,

my cat won't talk to me.
he slinks under table
to lick at his fur
keeping me in the corner of one amber eye.

the streetlamps are golden
the light cast through my window,
is golden, there's no sound but no sound,
a heavy absence, a feeling to be gained
and lost. and found and
lost again.

my cat stalks ghosts
into the bedroom
breathes heavy, groans,
whines, implores me
to sleep.
but I am not ready to give up yet.

in the morning all this,
will be gone.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

What to do?

the message was there.
that the litter was in the mail.
weighing in at 40 lbs.
no shipping cost.
tracked and noted to be, "out for delivery."
It was, as of this writing, two days late.
would I be asking for a refund
on the package? Would I be filing a disputed claim?
consider that it had recently snowed.
more than snowed actually, a blizzard, final total 3 feet in most counties.
also consider there was a cat in need of a place to shit.
also consider that there was a cat in need of a place to shit.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

twice has been

twice been to holbrook arizona outside ol' flagstaff
crooked neck gleaming in the southwestern heat
navajo blvd to apache ave route for business 40
old home of displaced peoples if you didn't know
more buildings condemned than closed or open
dairy queen sign baked pinked and watching over
restaurants serving fry bread tex-mex red or green
in-back of antique shops dusty and gray-brown
rock shops and dinosaur props fenced in each corner
the last structure on the right before you pull out town
same gas station attendant same cars in the lot
my footprint car tire prints separated two years.

Presumably, too divine

vague skies
haven't much to say
after the snow has fallen,
after the plows, away,
throw salt down and move on,
chased by low temperatures
in the night, useless,
on the black-top streets
slick with black ice,
to bridges buried in white,
current slowed
under thick sheets, the
mighty Potomac sleeps
and in her swampy city
beyond, sat in still-life
standstill, the weight
of winter, icy gears groan,
traffic ground to halt,
empty office, workaday fears,
impending doom of
forgotten lunch hours, bi-
weekly pay checks, bored,
for hours move on, and
pre-paid, the clean-up,
go-around, an obstacle for the
production mind to

Bill's taste in boys is macabre

with the car doing donuts in the left turn lane
under the bright green arrow of night,
riding over median sidewalk obstructions,
in between here and there
                                            my destination,
I am having the same thoughts as before,

once there was a man
covered in ivy
who, birthed from a tree,
walked toward me,
beside him was a woman,
made from bark of tree,
she raised her arms
toward me, moaning

But I can't quite place them
and my leg is wrapped in brace,
so the time is not quite right,
I was so much younger,
I am walking again,

and I look out to the castle,
meant to be a hospital,
on the left, right, now left,
and catching a glimpse of the driver,
up front, I see that somehow
it's my grandmother
                                 with wheel locked and pedal down
and maybe it hasn't been six years since your death.