30 October 2008

somtimes i rewrite things

creation
gods head was resting
forever
on frozen lakes—
seven if she counted correctly
but doubtful

where i
bending trees to me
with the weight of my
winterous core

sometimes alone in st paul
looming in impotent shade

skate wild
chiseled circles
around her face
pressed to the ice

eyes like moons
pocked pale children faced moons
that die
every morning

not hymn
the deafness of god is
not underestimated
to be
by even the most atheistic
apostles &
though debt is a virtue
hanging by log
pined into our wet brains
the sounds one makes
when prayer is a
possible answer
or hitting coolly laid
pavement another—
never sums up
the callous silence
of an accident

titled
over the great plains of your back
roaming bison avoid railroads
in a sense of the plague that
moses never dreamed of despite all the burning
bushes & golden calves he could find
in forty years of searching out there
on the wild of a womans body

haiku two
a voice coming from each of your false teeth
its true
you stare at the television set for hours & hours
at close range
& go blind

a shoot
sure am— or once had
to be a bison
but not a buffa—
long so many
train rides i dont really
take though should
eventually i
might stampede or just
shout past the horns
& the hairy hairy
backs of dakota
not nearly a place to
raise
not even a voice
but whimper land—
ho for hours & hours
at the tops of topped
off lungs i bellow
as only a bison
would roam if it
couldnt go home

new york (state)
oh god
where the buffalo roam
and remind me
again & again
how bruce
smith never won
a super—
bowl
no relation
i always thought
my grandpa smith
was from cuba
like the missile
crisis

a snow
we were questioning snow
of its cold
with our faces planted
firmly to the ground
legs up in the air
being dangled by moon
& its arms of tree shadows

you still new me then
when my face was a blue jay
pecking through the nests
of children
in the freezing depths
of a worthless february

(twelve) a natural progression
wasp just wouldnt leave
the wasp wouldnt leave just
would—not
im choking—im choking
im going to the grand canyon
this is bad for you
dont go where i cant follow
illegally climbing fences
irresponsibly mending
from one end to the far
state of mind
telling me savannah is
gorgeous in the fall
& it leaves
the leaves
i believe
you
killing the grass—
breathing in
smoke i
forgive everyone
when i am invisible
i forgave
everyone for everything
when invincible
& leaving the believing
the leaves
mending & the wasp
naked when in georgia
forgetting canyons
i once saw
on the other side of past—
yours so green
spend not enough time
explaining why
i felt too much
& eternity is south
possibly in winter
i will show you
but nothing dies anymore

spicer
that marvelous finger
he gave it
after being asked
to take back
comments made on ted
williams' contribution
to the bosox
i was there
he said i was there
when he gave it
but it wasnt worth
a goddamn thing
if you want to win the pennant
and my poetry
does

midwest-voodoo-physics
never ending
sky
not so much the bison
both can be
killed to borderline extinction
i
drive faster the further
things grow apart
between potter/dix
in back country pan—
handles where
rain is only a whitewashed
wall never seeming
to fill up this dry bed
who can sleep—
when there is no wind break
& the howling is
mistaken for hungry coyotes
nipping at
your feet all
because there are
no more
bison to kill

field of waste
gulls look
at the gulls
where have they been
these past few
hours
while the garbage
is ripe collecting
on earth as it is in heaven
cawing over winged
decay i
never smelled
such a feast
where the devil
knew
who would betray
me for
chump change

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