i dont edit these enough

creation
god's 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

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

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 wasn't 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 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

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