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