untitled

making it alone,
as in a living
a singular tree grows next to
then another

as far as allowed, up
does the heart stop
wincing
see faces in the knot-bark

find a way
to shimmy the trunk
notice through the leaves
out, out,
my fingers fatter than the branch

comfort food


when i was naked
you smiled

w/ hands
for claire

on the line to being cute
because my hand is careless in your hand

picking loose hairs off, picking
the pic-nic-king spot

on a roof,
ask if i have forgotten something

to fly
i think

the largest meth bust in american history

maybe steal some old beers from the garage
of your junior high school counselor
go hide somewhere

maybe throw a bowling ball out the window
of a moving car
watch it hit the curb and fly into the air

drink out by the river
burry your liquor in the sand bar
for another day,

maybe see the truck
that held the largest meth bust
in american history

more story. (EDITED)

tom had been staying at his parents house the past two weeks. it was the house he grew up in for the most part. the house was empty now except for the things left in the storage room upstairs that tom had converted into a guest room. there was an old bed in there, a bicycle, golf clubs, other things.
someone he knew once had called him the other day leaving a message that she was coming to see him. she flew in from kansas city after spending a few days with her parents. tom thought that was funny for some reason. even though she had let him know she was coming tom was still a little surprised she showed up at the door. it was tuesday.
when the doorbell rang, tom sat there not moving. he was in the living room sitting on a folding chair he had put there. there was charred wood in the fire place with ashes scattered on the floor nearby. it had been two weeks.
the doorbell rang again.
tom got up and brushed some crumbs off his pants. he didn't remember eating anything that day. walking to the door he could see her peeking through the small window. she saw him.
the smile was something he had always remembered. he wrote about it, though none of those poems were well received by his editor.
he opened the door, attempting to hide what it was he felt.
she was still smiling, her face and neck blush.
'hello thomas,' she said.
'hello,' he said.
he stepped to the side to let her in, but she approached him to give him a hug. she leaned up and kissed his beard.
'it's nice to see you' she said, quietly.
'it's nice to see you too.'
'really?' she looked at him.
he looked to her side and saw she was carrying a grocery bag.
'what do you got there?'
'supplies,' she smiled again.
'let's go up stairs,' he turned.
'should i take off my boots down here?'
he shook his head and started up the stairs.
'we'll need glasses and ice,' she said.
'i have those up here,' he was halfway up the stairs now.
she didn't know what to say. she couldn't tell what he was thinking, or how he was feeling. she wanted to say something.
he didn't know why she was here, but he was glad in some way.
she came up to him, standing in the hallway waiting for her.
'what are you doing?'
'in here,' he opened a door that was painted over to blend with the wall. it opened to the storage room with the guest bed. he took the bag of supplies from her and started placing them on a card table he found the other day; two oranges; bitters; a bottle of simple syrup; a bottle of makers.
'old fashioned's,' he said.
'still drink them?'
'not since i last saw you' he started mixing a drink.
she didn't know what to say. he wasn’t looking at her.
he pulled out an ice tray from a mini fridge under the table.
'nice dorm room you have,' she said, looking around at all the collected junk, old things.
'yeah,' he poured one cup into the other to mix it. he looked around at the room but didn’t say anything else.
'the weather's really nice here,' she was looking at him again.
'is it?'
'it was dreadful in kansas city. it rained the first three days. stayed cooped up in the house with my parents. it was nice at first, but then i just couldn't wait to go. i couldn't wait to see you," she looked to him for recognition.
'well i'm glad you made it safe,' he handed her a drink. he smiled the way it doesn't look like he was smiling, his lips straightened out.
'me too,' she took the glass from him and took a sip.
'strong,' she made a face that wrinkled the bridge of her nose.
'you still drink it that way?' he was mixing his drink with his finger.
'not since i last saw you.'
he smiled.

the smile was something he had always remembered. he had written about it, though none of those poems were well received by his editor.

working on a story pt. 1

tom had been staying at his parents house the past two weeks. it was the house he grew up in for the most part. the house was empty now except for the things left in the storage room upstairs that tom had converted into a guest room. there was an old bed in there, a bicycle, golf clubs, other things. someone he knew once had called him the other day leaving a message that she was coming to see him.
she flew in from kansas city after spending a few days with her parents. tom thought that was funny for some reason. even though she had let him know she was coming tom was still a little surprised she showed up at the door. it was tuesday.
when the doorbell rang, tom sat there not moving. he was in the livingroom sitting on a folding chair he had put there. there was charred wood in the fire place with ashes scattered on the floor nearby. it had been two weeks.
the doorbell rang again.
tom got up and brushed some crumbs off his pants. he didn't remember eating anything that day. walking to the door he could see her peeking through the small window. she saw him.

nest

wild horses draw the head off
you, razor legs show me
the skin of your bite bones
or where the fir trees grow
down to the night-time water body
so i can be a romantic man
talk generic about the places of you
your body
the off-path covered wagon
dirt boat
my beard dangling w/ twigs
& prairie flower
arranged to remind you

krzyzewski

under the plain swell
can you feel all the earthquakes

the man i know from falls city
saves you sometimes
or so he says

then the rumbling, loud like a boat
but the forest over here
sang it out,
when the garlic mustard killed your garden

with the path cleared of poisonous spiders
the indian graveyard seems safe

but you realize there isn't an end to this
the father still has to have it's kids
& the spiders still come back next summer.

interview

don't work hard enough
move to a new 'world'
excuse
bet on the underdog
& complain when the upperdog
wins
can i get a job w/ gold teeth or
if i wear a t-shirt
w/ all the presidents who had beards
on the front
so what if i hide my face from you
level 2 proficient w/ microsoft office
yes,
will you hold it againt me:
violations after violations
dig out all the bones
& make yourself a bone yard
how many you's does it take to--
stop me if you heard this one before
high school football coach as reference
though i do not know his current phone number
how do you
sleep at night
in your bed made of shatter proof sheets.

canoe #2

bending my near broken buffalo collar
bone down the winding
niobrara
she lays lady finger
between each western rib.
my skin ripples
in pond
telling me which water snake will bite
my face sweet & lonesome
beneath an other-
worldly sun tanning my hide
naked in a boat

pioneers

counting bruises
oh, are we
apples
sail upon trampled fields
of water wheat
you grow gold w/ your soiled hands
she
drinks & i
drink
redberry wine cold behind trails
of bison bur & indian grass
smelling in barberry or
may-apple maybe we
wait
for it to get dark for
our skin to hide

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 rows grow
between potter/dix
in back country pan-handles where
rain is only a whitewashed
wall never seeming
to fill up dry bed
who can sleep

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

poem
1.

do
i go at it all wrong; on

deck
for the swinging game

more clobber
out of my bones arm--

cast
the throwing of small

boulders or
am i
poet

2.

poet
am i

falling to pieces in my
pieces falling

zone. so girl
turns to stone

inside of my baby
my baby groans

can i
find a small boy named i
& home

light & shadows

a partially blind man
ran into me
on my smoke break at work
carrying a camcorder
he said:
i am taking a video of the city
for friends & family to see
in my left eye
i can see light & shadows
that's how i do it

iowa
for heaven

stretch across a belly flat
or
could i say it in a much more boring way
drive slow
so you do not miss
the largest truck stop in the world
with enough parking space
for the entire state
to park
their semis

heaven
for iowa

a small box the size of iowa
but lets not mix the twain
w/ baseball

there is no gay marriage in heaven
because
there is no heaven
it is called iowa

just blocks
for jon

& so the morning remarks
hello

do i still smoke cigarettes
am i still me, snake

sunshine on the plains is forever

said cedar was a good smellin' wood
the best
other asks
what are those

i do not like detroit
for playoffs

so i cried after
reggie millers last game

does anyone really
laugh like that cackle you got
&
do you know how good
john starks
actually was

file the parts you know
about kidhood
@ madison square garden
or any place you saw on a television set

do we know that these are people
that i am writing a poem
about real people

sand.gravel.limestone

II.

i am jealous of the desert
w/ small you

see
there are no stars
over chicago

take places apart
to make
small distances you can hide behind
a cactus
leaves

no matter how much the temperature changes
at night

when bats fly over a desert
to kiss nectar
& move on

to another desert.