slow walk apocalypse

holding a body—
sometimes i am an asshole

the eye’s slits
cum in the clean jeans

trapped by environment
look like a baby

whole lives
ahead of us--

your body rubbed soft
red at the nubs,

even with a second body,
in case there is no one tomorrow

quiet you, quit--
squint at the sun. say sun.

i’m not dancing, i'm blind,
i’m not ready for the swing--

deck me,
break all my fine china

digging a hole through earth
to china, easy does

the other side, the other
chinese lives, where.

so the body
keeps growing

does it shit,
we wait to see--

or ass, or bottom
of a beautiful barrel, apples

slice things with knives
ask why i always carry knives

“there are a lot of stabbings
in Grand Island.”

so scary, so wounds cut,
chop noise from cat alley

the sun is increasing in size
night slowly, paw.

am i right,
can you see the dust settle

watch the echo,
bouncing space debris off

past lovers, a fuck
reflections of people you think

talk to yourself
with this new body you found

looking alone with her
wrapped around you.

forgot the words, or
only remembered poems

about falling space dust
ricocheting off some body

turning over and over in your awake
sleep, pretty when you

no, snoring is love,
no this unattractive pile is love

my love, dark as space between
another sun

dust on emptiness, you
you, and the grass growing

under the snow
the beard with all twigs

being afraid of people leaving
or wanting to

lost in a world like china,
not unlike the attractive middle of nebraska

the arms don’t know their chest
well, imploding

she thinks it’s useless to talk to them
but still talks to them.

heavy

born on a lazy river
forget to drink water sometimes
losing the weight

i've gone on long
like my old lady says
sounds like catfish in here

land poem

O! ocean, humiliating in it's prairie
empty as space
no one is a poem; to read

greener than red sight, don't
yell at me when i'm
driving

this dirt
means i am working hard
on me

maybe the poem is aimless
enough
to find 3rd base with your chest
down to it

banana poem

so i was walking with this banana in my pocket that i was going to eat for lunch
and i kept wondering if people would say hey
is that a banana in your pocket or are you happy to see me
you know, as it goes
and i wouldn't know what to say if i WAS happy to see them
the either or, black or white
as if this banana in my pocket
causes me to hate everyone.

slope

remembering how young i am
eases the fear of existence

or what i am
supposed to know when i am older

wasn't meant to swallow that much
nutmeg,
wasn't meant to be so cute

poor isn't what i would dream,
sort of space travel
w/ beautiful women

where we

i was never more separate
than free, zone
off what i want to need

who i am, roll
down the window a crack

wind says whistle

jump while running
jump while standing

stand still
when the shit is scared out of,

i am sorry i loved you
i am sorry i lied
i am sure

about something,
my heart
never caught up with my aging.

there to go

i bought you a waterbed said
it was not an ocean
but i still surf

when i was naked
you smiled

i still am
laying down on that driveway
acting

i wished for a window to sneak
or all sky
for my space travel

find
moons everywhere

wall

happy was,
a hope is easy, sing
to say every thing is;

my love,
dust on what holds
wounds of repeated head-banging,
the wall

is white

happy birthday

here is your fancy death
skin drapes the bones

where did your nakedness go
full of the fat intake

laughing
was never worth it

when you realize how stupid it sounds
being in a universe.

where was your nakedness
grass blades break
under any foot push,

sprinkler bath, you make me
eat tree leaves.

i owe so much.
my underground looks
the way
i am hardly aging,

wet and sliding
across everything

woman

the fur touches
thought they were fair
at foresting
mushroom growth, or eat everything

gone
my fire hands, hot like coffee
a real
ball park figure
of a woman

smokes
closed windows before
never saw anything out there
i liked.

likes, like he likes
his coffee, as hot
as humanly bearable

takes his religion
to public parks
and is good at foresting

brass tacks

showing you/ your best hands
look like a mirror or all your hands
trophy wife gets old
legs fall off at my bites.

buy shoes again, waste of it
all the walking,
a room carpeted in greenbacks,

sweat your chops for midwest summer
job,

feed off/ the dying
you laugh at me when i come in fear
say, how are you.
answers fall from outterspace.

jesus

make me feel august as a car drives
get it just standing next to the bus
by all the other busses

i used to say that i have read
all the lord of the rings

but i never have.

there is only one city named Iowa City,
where i am from.

people say, jesus a lot. here.

kyle, i know, is out west where he's from.
i have no patience to head west. jesus.
he said, girls are a headache for sure.

i drink normal coffee drinks
and name them things.
like god would if he drank normal coffee.

when i wake up,
or i said the only things that get me going
are women and coffee.

she takes too
long.

over here under the colored light,
we pretend things are always.

i speak about drugs,
or tell people my father almost died.

inside i am almost me,
and growing some.