still not six a.m. &
i'm going
probably home but at the moment
it's debatable
i see others, jogging
or riding their bikes like i am
all exercising i
see people drive by &
wonder if they think i am
exercising as well
but i have hardly slept
& still a little drunk
riding home to my bed
carrying a bottle
of seagrams seven
in a plastic sack
hiding the fact that i am not
as healthy as i seem

i saw an owl

i was sitting on my bike
in the drive-
thru
of a 24-
7 mexican
restaurant when i saw an owl
swoop from a tree &
land on the roof of a church
i wanted
to get a closer look
but i
went home instead to see
nothing

a goodnight poem

tangled in
brought up to believe—
afraid of some other.
she kisses
you.
& the other
is put away
behind the things we forget to
remember,
underneath a dusty fear aging in reason
from the comfort
she
makes in a kiss.

it's pretty ridiculous that sotomayor is being grilled about her background and how it might affect her decisions.

Anti—

she does not deny her role
even if one cannot be read
in words
though the word do not always mean
mystery
they secretly yell
non-exclamatory cries across that face
her
ear to another ear
she whispers
& small notes are sparkled from golden skin
drunk off the blood of a lover
a saint
who walks with me
in my Babylon beyond
a shadow she
of walls
hiding some great city that is &
is
not
she pretends to hear me from outside it’s defense
i lean on them by stone & horn hand
as the babe leaves her
& another after
another
they are all mine she whispers into their lips
brothers of Gomorrah
kissing each other on the eye — defiled they love
deep into wells of each other
children of Cain
& staff
arched out over the backs of the willing rams
to bleed us
kissing our young Abel bodies that yearn for seed
or soiled blood
we whet them as prodigals
though we meet them as sin
&
in the confusion we endlessly suffer
our brothers death

july is a

hurray for you, bulldog

she startles at night
whirr of wing beats wild
ignites
where bombs are laid beneath
old hay wasted
& limbs
will be lost beneath
the big gray bay
you
only wish for the small
& regular things
sounds of rain on the roof—
the old stone wall,
calling birds in the courtyard,
just enough
wine to rinse out the taste

so those previous 3 posts are poems that i previously wrote and rewrote/edited and submitted for publication the other day. see if that works. i wish we still had writers group so there could be at least some sort of feedback somewhere. plus i liked reading what other people wrote. that doesn't seem to happen as much these days. what the hell.

eragrostis trichodes

logically i maneuver back
roughing hands
or was it subtle soft
not a man’s
stubble lost by coarse
demands
confusing cowboy law
too much drinking – horses
trough
free to survey & wander
all the land
your nipples thighs
rolling sands
the grass of unclaimed prairie
where wild fur stands

chinese highlands west of broken bow

one million of these deer
w/elephant—like
snubbed
or
stubbed
see things she hides in these trunks
for swimming
i decide who
reels in—
horror, the catfish kisser
what
mass genocide by water-hole beach
sandhills & where
thinking empty prairie no
matter when
is an eerie ocean though driving
non-stop
& stopping
each time an oasis
each time
a swim
everywhere we don’t go
a sound
empty as it may-be
for the awkward ghosts to migrate

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
strawberry wine
cold
forgotten 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

just wanted to point out that ken griffey jr is batting .222 - 23 rbis - 8 home runs and a .405 slugging. making 2 million a year

david ortiz is batting .216 - 34 rbis - 7 home runs and .381 slugging making 13 million

but the really amazing stat is that david ortiz is listed at 6'4 230lbs and griffey is listed as 6'3 230. is griffey actually fatter than ortiz?

he's the 'bron i'm the brains

shaq traded to the cavaliers. seems pretty desperate to me. then again it is a better offense for shaq to be in than the suns run 'n gun.

farrah fawcett died.

Bowl Championship Series presidents have rejected the Mountain West Conference's playoff plan.

big surprise.

warren buffet says economic "worst" is yet to come. awesome. i need to drive up to omaha and see of good ol' warren will hook me up with some odd jobs.

so last night i thought i would try my luck at some texas hold 'em. unfortunately i forgot that i have no luck. in anything. it wasn't terrible, but i lost $20, which is a lot of money for me right now. i could have turned that $20 into about 300, so the draw was pretty big. anyway i busted once, and did a re-buy ($10&$10). i forget the first bust but it was something like: he had a pair of 6's on the flop, i had K10 suited and nothing on the flop except one suited card for a flush. then the turn and he put me all in. i landed another club (my suit) and liked my chances so i went all in, which wasn't much at this time. lost. the second hand, much worse, i had pocket kings; raised preflop. flop comes down, i go all in with an ACE a six and a three down. its me and one other dude. he calls me. he has POCKET ACES. good grief. so i rode my bike to shane/mike/flowers house and drank the rest of my wild turkey i left over there, smoked all my cigarettes, and drank gin/lime and water until 5am. came home. slept five hours.

feel great.

U.S. soccer team beats Spain 2-nil

u.s. uses military to convert muslims

in May, Al-Jazeera broadcast clips filmed in 2008 showing stacks of Bibles translated into Pashto and Dari at the U.S. air base in Bagram and featuring the chief of U.S. military chaplains in Afghanistan, Lt. Col. Gary Hensley, telling soldiers to “hunt people for Jesus.”

he who brings the fleet
by foot
of your empty hand
fluting the creek
nearing seasick reindeer
do not know the tundra of summer
kissing my hot sweet neck
where the work & travel
follow death
to doors of medicine
she watches
the stragglers fall in through the back door
greeting them with burning smiles

miracle

old crow she is
eyes on the moss
always
her north jaw glances my southern jaw
the friction of beard
over feather
whispers to me about the rareness
of Appalachian mountain wine
trickling down from green peaks
where
Bacchus dances around the jesus leaf
sickle in hand
to trim the fat from my liver

tenants

the noise from our dishes being washed
our whispers

disturb the man downstairs
& his dogs—

the fact that I am from Pakistan
his generalizations

disturb the man downstairs
& his dogs—

that i love you i love you
with my foreign tongue

disturbs the man downstairs
& his dogs—

that I listen with wild ears
as you play guitar

disturbs the man downstairs
& his dogs—

i whisper to boys in the street
that i’m leaving

telling them of stacks
of bicycles in the basement

& how the last time i saw snow
was in north Pakistan when i was five

disturbs the man downstairs
& his dogs—

crop circles

baby blue dakota
corn maize
for wandering
or
holding questions towards some
nothing
for whom you meet every time
you go there
sioux falls, further north
where moose—
mosquito blend
spending more &
more time thinking
about fields of soy bean children
palm readers of outer
space
cell phone satellites
read you off
by number & name— say
there are too many of you
to count

couch’d

we fool’
writers of a pigeon age
cannot tell
moon from ism’s
say ‘i’
repeatedly but do not jot
down the specific
time
you took all of these
pills
that make your fingers
smoke after
lightning may have struck
somewhere near your
home
when last you cleaned
it &
found what you were looking for
in between the cushions

trip

one eye on the road, too
eyes
on the feet because you have them
she groans
why does the sun shine so
me whistling as if
i could
grow
i sing by note un—
noted
fluting around lakes that smell
like beautiful cow—
excitement
is in heel or skip
she waits at the other end of
the bridge
more winding &
long gravel paths up ahead
for our knees
to kiss

mississippi

onion footed i shan’t
dance
o’ jolly
prairie college dunce for
more medicine
to leave
&
ship sail by foot
toward the moon rising
down
beneath the gulf of mexico
where earth
she pools her words
& drinks
your somber prayers say
dream to me
tearful dancer boy
&
i will take
you with me

spotted

cornered in by her
warmth
she reminds you with her eyes
acorns floating
small nutty clouds
that hold you down
&
kiss your chest
until
the trees grow

i was just reading a facebook group about "stopping tiller" or whatever the title of the group was. it was pretty absurd. i mean sure there are points to be made with the abortion debate. people take sides. but only one side ever acts out in violence. imo. i guess they could argue that abortion is acting out in violence. this is too wavy of a subject. is abortion wrong? im some situations maybe. but that doesnt mean it should be illegal. in many situations abortion is a reasonably preferable alternative. abortion would also be less of a problem if other issues were handled better such as free pregancy/std prevention centers. i dont know much about the planned parenthood and how free/cheap/easy it is to get help there but i do know that it is nearly impossible to find a "free" place for males to get tested for stds. i had to go through other sources and have them "bully" the clinic i went to to let me test for free and the clinic still sent me a bill. i didnt pay it of course. now, this might not be directly associated with abortion but i really think it is. i think that there are issues that desperately need to be addressed in our society/world. std/pregnancy prevention. granted this wont solve the issue/debate on abortion but it would definitely help as well as help in a lot of other issues, namely the spreading of stds. down to the point, i am against violence, though i see its merit in self defense/other defense, and even in some cases revenge, though there are clearly better alternatives to violence when dealing with revenge. so abortion is still a touchy subject. i am more for personal rights than i am against violence. so i think abortion should be legal, always. i dislike this discussion though. but i rarely hear anyones opinion.

also i would very much enjoy scheduled lunches.

also i really want to download bill callahans new album and also grizzly bears new album. or at least hear them. i havent really had a chance to listen to new/good music in a long ass time.

there is a guy in the computer lab with a mustache & he is wearing ear plugs. there is an odd smirk on his face and his arms are crossed. he must be watching that video of the deer jumping over the police car in iowa. good ol' iowa.

i am nearly 100% moved in to my new apt/house/room/thing. sure its a house but it feels more like im renting a room. because thats basically what i am doing. thats what ellen is doing too, but shes paying roughly 2-300 more a month to be close to horses and mountains. i guess i would pay more to be near horses and mountains too. lincoln needs some mountains. anyway, my room doesnt have screens on the windows. this isnt a huge issue, though i dislike bugs to be sure, its mostly a problem because chaplain is constantly in escape/adventure mode even if it is a 2nd story window. my calf on my left leg is in considerable pain after the moving this weekend. i also hit my/ scratch that its my right calf/ anyway i also hit my left index finger with a hammer and it still hurts though it hasnt bruised. apostrophes. i often worry about my ability to spell words correctly. i think generally i am a fairly learned speller of words but i often think of words that i have heard and never/rarely seen and think i know how to spell them. sometimes i think this isnt a big deal but sometimes i feel insecure about it. my grammar is also shoddy at best. i think. though i may know more than i actually think i know, i know. its all tangents and cosines. commas. & i still think capital letters are ugly. the lowercase i is much more (something) than the I. anyway this was supposed to be about my new place. since i dont really get the internet and all i wanted to say a few things. i am living in a house on 11th and D. 1121 D st i believe. it is a very old woody dusty house. i dont think the gas is on. i tried to turn on the stove today to see and i couldnt figure it out because the stove seems to have been made in 1915. rough guess. i had to remove several things from my new room before i could officially feel as if it were mine. namely seven pairs of womens high heel'd shoes. also a shoe box full of crayons and a separate shoe box full of postcards/letters to someone who previously lived in my room from a girl i had a class with one time. they may or may not both previously been in the band papers. i think my current roommate was in the band papers. eric says he thinks so.

here are poems that i have been writing for you

one of them

lewis &
clarked my way
from indian
caves
to cherry county
swindling along the big
dirty
missouri stay
as far away from the iowan
banks as possible
because my pull
to lose everything all of the time
becomes fresh in my mind
catfish salt
under the nose
when i hear
those riverboat whistles
come hither
dear gambler
the pearly gates are open wide

canoe #2

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

new moon

you forget the small
things
maybe it's tree covered hills
or the blue
eyes
roaming
probably because you never
saw
them before or
really looked hard enough
&
her skin
reflecting light
from distances keeps you
safe
on warm summer nights

mapped


she draws
maps
with a small hand that holds
you
a grid to remember how far
point a to point
b
really is
though it lies
with the stretch of finger &
thumb
across great distances
pretending to be
there
held in
those hands that clench
your back
fingers dancing

beards

grown men don't
release
their beards to wind
they cry-
out at the moon "damn-
you!"
stealer of sun-
shine to hell
where you will find
endless body heat
& enough
long faces
fully
sad white
beards
all looking like gods

pioneers

counting bruises
oh
are we
apples
sail out upon fields
of water you
grow
w/ your soiled hands
she
drinks &
i drink
strawberry wine cold
laying w/ the low
forgotten
behind trails of bison
&
pine weave
smelling in sulfur
or mulberry maybe
we wait
for it to get dark
for our skin to hide

i started smoking again. though i may quit again.
i think this is a thing.

after

he comes
out of the room
one room the other was
nt
in & with a towel around his neck
his hair slicked
back
looking quite ill
he comes
& the other sits on the sofa
but does
nt
look up because outside
something is headed
right for them

my gardener

a witness to
your fragile knit frame on white cloth
spring
as a cucumber
the thistles will shriek
their tiny voices
&
the stand-out yellow ones
may
be weeds
but no-one really notices
when the sky
melodies into your eyes
dew
lit up your soft leafed neck
my skinny hand
finds
the smallness of your back
as if
i can heal you

nervous of tables

watching you eat
on neutral ground i can see
each eye—
lash
falling in
or around where i put my hands
i swear
up & down the wind won’t
take me away from my vision
of you
devouring

my mom asked me what year i was born

last night was a good example of whisky being a bad idea

pastel on construction paper

when i was
in third grade other boys
would pay me fifty
cents
to draw birds of prey
&
one february i made a fantastic
likeness of
the sixteenth president

snow, a

you can never stop this
my voice sounds
as if the spring came
but
the uncertainty of noise
mixed in with the sentimentality
of a nobody
she says it hasn't come yet
maybe never will &
it doesn't matter anymore

destruction

chew with your mouth
so open
it leads a dozen o—
more for
say can we spee—
a
language you once knew because
didn’t
i am
become a reinvention
shelling over tortoise
&
each branch of the hare tree
fee—
a family or
light shine by leaves who own
not the land but!
the dawn
a dirt
who she keeps to rib me while i creep in the back
naming
all of you

i just saw the dragon ball trailer. even though it looks absolutely terrible i really couldnt get over the fact that chow yun fat was master roshi. this is sadly a step down from bullet proof monk. even still, i just cant understand why he is master roshi. master roshi is a bald old man with a large white mustache and a turtle shell who looks at porn and lives on an island. i mean, this trailer makes MK2 look like it should be at sundance.

red giant

half a galaxy away
solar-pan
system x or another being
creature-some are telling tales
forty-foot mechs
flying through space to defend
your moon
europa III a ghastly
gas giant ghost
take notes
of which laser sounds louder
mine
or not mine
you fool with physics and sense
making too much of this
too few of that
i say atmosphere
before bureaucratic alien life
forms say
she's coming
&
she will consume us all

i know its overdone to say you're quitting
smoking
after a night of too much smoking
but i'm quitting smoking
this is what i say
to myself
& it's rational
for someone who is young with lungs
that are needed
or will be
& for not having the gold bars required
to purchase ridiculously priced
dried leaves in paper
that coat my throat
in tars and scars
so you think rhyming might help you remember
that smoking
though it makes you look cool
also
kind of sucks

hung-over wednesday morning
& the sirens in the middle of town
whisper of destructive wind or is it lies
lies you said
but i still believe them
run scurrying towards shelter
see-
ing the bird legs
creeping from the baseline of the clouds
calling her nimbus witch
teasing us with her song of wholly
terror
you try to convince me that it isn't real
that they're only testing us
but
i've heard that before

when i say things like
stop biting
me
you should listen
& the sirens in the middle of town
whisper of

tower

out of eden
the animals we love
&
eat
with our teeth
you smell smoke better
than i smell smoke
alarmed
they go running
further or deeper
not into
temptation but
delivering from the confusion of words
saying
i can speak these
& still
not a thing
will understand any of it
because we
are all so damn scared of each other

what i meant
before was that i am a liar
not that i am lying
or around
but when a serious moment arises
realizing this is not actually serious
but you think it is
then i think it is
then it is
but still is
not
& you forget i told you i am a liar

you find yourself in an empty
box
though this contradicts
all aha's
& need i remind that
money is no object
no so
there you are in this empty
box
ticking away time
gradually you are thin
but
most likely filling up the
box

see you, space cowboy

a non-existent season

oh my-
goodness grace
us
you i say but
didn't or don't
does your hair
dance
wild i think
holding on to mane
for fear or
not
you are &
beautiful-
a piece of oak skin
in the lake
a whole
season
fishing for
everything in its' own
time &
releasing by the same touch

love poem

somedays move in-
buoyant on standing lawns
who say green pastures
lie
over there you smell the necks
of taller trees
fir or birch always
nutty
with seed
i enter scene &
remove
your shoes at my doorstep
touch your feet
& kiss them
with all of my face

lions, you're not sure &
it types
or there are some sort of differences between
i said i'm listening
& there was a pause
the lions she says
pride or
in a cave like dwelling less inter-rock
cave,
more dugout mud cave

brow furrows
& things start to blend together
who is lion
or
where is this pride
question marks form themselves in eyes
or on lips
wet with wanting
to understand that this is a pointless presentation

chinese highlands west of broken bow

one million of these deer
w/
elephant-like snubbed or
stubbed
what she hides in these
trunks
for swimming
i decide
who reels in horror from
what mass genocide
& where
thinking empty prairie no
matter when
is an eerie plain though driving
non-stop
& stopping
each time an oasis
each time
a swim
everywhere we dont go
a sound
empty as it may-be for the
awkward ghosts to migrate

tigers on the moon, well, well.

a small scale
mission to empty reaches of cold heaven
you note
there are fewer & fewer life-
forms
or dust is filling ice cubed arks say
i know
a
cat warm & deadly
fangs in the neck of many gazelle
she says
she loves me
she tells me she will come
two by
two
& i lead her on
with a heavy heart

which came first, the god or the man? this explains who fucked up.

greens
for kyle


on the other side
of the fence you
sit or i do

we listen when theres
nothing
cough or a-
choo when people ask

godlike maybe
not seeing a road home
with sectioned off fields
on either side
a cow

he says he go
because he got to
knows
no where else to be

drink in a habit
for the circle drawn
from one rib to another
expands
as a family does

shes early you say &
know this is either
a good
or terrible thing
for the both

writing down a first
for letters
vowels from the mouth
spelling a calm
wicked note for dancing

whose stamps she licks
whose envelopes
are you in
as ears

a ghost you remember
says to you
i glow
i glow &
you thank him

why arent there more doors
& windows
less rooms to hide
old words

i find it easy to
say you
not with out
remembering gin
or an icy neck in length

swan forms from
the in-
side names you
chickenhawk
& likes you

i write this down
you
rewrite it
&
we rhyme with smoke
signals

i forget you
february
where you own
more holidays than the actual
days
for as time goes
you know more about leaps less
about work
or logic
or love: a copy-
right
which none are in common boats
but
mostly february i hold you
in firm disdain
for the rent i pay despite a lacking

farewell color

nuts butter than squash
soup for cent
of
where she left a ghost right in the middle
sheets are cover
trick oder
treat sich-
no im fine she keeps saying this
recall without
writing down what happened &
possibly what you missed
a penchant for film noir
& bad tom waits
you say
they all are
you say nuts
but you-
question poor taste
orange broth only by color
feeling sentimental to another page

sometimes i realize that im a pretty dumb person
masturbating on the interstate
& what nots
say remember that one time
so you nod
trying to forget how much of an idiot
even idiots can be

i.

a small bird not on my
resume tells me
in one ear— perhaps out another
that she will fix my
economy
comes as a surprise—
not words
not ever a bird speaking
to bail me out
more of this in poem & the science of a thing
questioning the big

ii.

birdbath she says she’s in
over her head
again the winging eye to eye
draws me sleeplike
in danger of wavering off the banks
of road river
which likes to make you think
ice is rarer
than it looks

iii.

white car in the ditch
she wheels back
around to say important words
more poems &
i told you sos
it goes
on like this for a few minutes
the mud is here
or there
& the bird baths

iv.

mud as a language
its dirty
& where you wear it
smudges up what is already smudged
runs rump or makes
you look like an ass

v.

trips too short smell poetic
& filthy white
notice:
the birds aren’t even
hear
silence of running a muck &
the non-bird whispering about forgetting travelers
czech(s)
drives you out of the preverbal
ditch the mud!
only here
you find yourself still
mind numbingly trudging through a pretty
nice day

my computer is basically dead

carnivorous never
meant to be
me—
aning on
a branch far from prague
slipping gingerly or apples
among
so many others
bruised by bite
she clings to me as a leaf
knowing the seasons
stay

rick

somebody dies & it's not
a new occurrence to
say
the least come
&
forget when everyone
died before
or why
probably because nobody ever
told you
or you never asked
thinking it happens
& we
don't need to know why

shit rains but
you think it's silly when
there's a pause
remembering what actually hit the fan
you tell them again
about the shit
thinking this time maybe
they will understand
& you will be interrupted
less frequently

forgetting or
i was
a plan & knowing
something contrary to belief
she said
she looked
like a sixteen year old
woman
it was simple to be
but far from the truth
you take this
wall
for instance
say maybe it's no berlin
but she built it
& it's gonna take
one hell of a
hammer

forgetting or
i was
a plan & knowing
something contrary to belief
she said
she looked
like a sixteen year old

i have been friends with anthony vandenberg since i was in the 6th grade. thats what... a long time ago. i was thinking about friends a few... days ago or so and thought that i couldnt really see losing the friends that i have. i mean like losing touch or whatever. not seeing them and not really thinking about it. right now it just seems like everyone is gone because of christmas, but theres a pretty good chance i wont see anthony for a few years. possible. i really miss ellen right now, but i also feel ok i guess. im trying to build up my solitary stamina.

theres this girl at the bar of my coffee shop talking to her grandma i assume and they are talking about boondock saints and how its a good movie and the grandma agreed. she may not be a grandma. actually she may be a boss or... just an older woman. this is strange.

theres this girl at the bar of my coffee shop talking to her grandma i assume and they are talking about boondock saints and how its a good movie and the grandma agreed. she may not be a grandma. actually she may be a boss or... just an older woman. this is strange.

i am losing count
of all the cars that drive through
my drive thru


STOP DRIVING THROUGH MY DRIVE THRU
THIS IS NOT A STREET
THIS IS NOT YOUR TURN AROUND BULLSHIT ROUTE

GO DRIVE THRU SOME OTHER DRIVE THRU

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH QUIT MAKING
THE BELL GO OFF!!!!!!!!!!

i am losing count
of all the cars that drive through
my drive thru


STOP DRIVING THROUGH MY DRIVE THRU
THIS IS NOT A STREET
THIS IS NOT YOUR TURN AROUND BULLSHIT ROUTE

GO DRIVE THRU SOME OTHER DRIVE THRU

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH QUIT MAKING
THE BELL GO OFF!!!!!!!!!!

several dog—
night sledding by
bob or squeal a pattern
frigid foresting
steams under
what is called a ground
&
a line so agreeing
her hawkish
features tell me
to shake these geese
i vibrating—
a pattern now lost
more than a disaster
she speaks to me
saying things
softly

i draw too much
touching
& or roughing up
go down & a-
round
someones lines
forgot to re-
hearse
walking deadlike because
the sun
smells less like breakfast
tonight
saying the time is irrelevant
or perhaps
a watch
was lost

take one
breath & it's over

one exit &
the way is small

you believe
& that is enough

you forget why there
was ever a question

& you take
one breath before it's over

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

i dont think i have ever worked on a poem this much before - it taxes

not hymn

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

ii
be a colossus of
parallel
tracks
& or rumble
of prone steel
reminds a bend
some say tunnel
who is truly coming
by
& by
but still remains un—
proven what
lies
ahead

iii
standing up
for several hours &
then kneeling
to taste sour wine
on the sponge
before standing up once
more
maybe the last
all while denying
effort transcends
triumvirate bodies in
the name
of the etcetera


iv
cannot remember face
or fact by calling
out to nameless
robes in vain
to vine
though names were never
necessary
all under breath
of rib
gnostic &
believable
when darkness was
a lovely man
silhouetted by pale
horse &
my mouth rang
with swords

v
on rocks made of skulls
you & i
sit fist-tight
against stubbled chins
waiting
for sheepskin to soak
up what is not there
or never was
some firmament
of voices
choir leering with
their omniscient
bald
beards
only watching to count
pentamerous
mistakes we make
in forgiveness
an act
of refusal to take back
all that is
set into wooden
stone by
cock crow’d motion
in lyrical disconnected
dissonance

rationalizing

& it reminds me to write
about the sexual
inadequacy of starling men
darlings
in sheets when they cant
break even

she is not the season—
ginger for tops
but a follicle & freckle
who know each other
as home—
made sin

youre telling me this
was never a joke
& it reminds me to push through

i take breaks now
between circumstances
hoping to please
every bone in
your universe

but when one end is
the only out—
come we can find
the monotony of pleasure
bleeds together
of days too long
and dry

officially the graduate schools im applying to

university of minnesota in minneapolis
university of oregon in eugene
boise state university in boise idaho
georgia college and state in millridge georgia
louisiana state university in baton rouge
university of montana in missoula

minnesota, oregon, and lsu all have the opportunity for full tuition waiver
lsu (i think) pays the greatest teaching stipend of (16k or so)

boise state, montana, and georgia college and state all waive most of the tuition and have meager stipends. 9k or so.

from what ive seen all of these schools are fairly well respected for creative writing and poetry. minnesota montana and oregon are among the top 30ish programs i guess.

mostly i care about where they are and how much they pay for my school. lsu is looking pretty king right now, but id be happy to go to any of these. i guess my rankings right now would be:

LSU
OREGON
MONTANA

this is just to say

the children are gone
& i have caused supplies
of whisky & morphine
to dry up the same

knowing full well
you would
walk in
at any moment
to catch me lying
shirtless on the floor

forgive me but
the lonely road
to sleep
looked so sweet
& so cold

going

wide by the sky
a terrain i walk casually
your eyes
says a one
but there are so many—
none or
a relentless nothing
that takes a getting used to
for the sake
of feeling alone or
underbundled
while solitude is always under—
watch behind lines
of trees
& sentimental shadowy
figures we call out
to when fingertips
twinge in the cold
empty night
yearning for—

a naked death

essentially i or
just being that
a letter
never meant to be
later
& alligator you
more spelling
where words are—
nt being
so have seen
between the lines
i again
laying in the bath
three inches of water
maybe less
& more
cooling quicker
than i can clean
saying these are teeth
beautiful white
jaws around
me in porcelain
begging me to slip
every time

telling them

even christ—
ians tell bad jokes
bad as bad
& see the mistakes
in the mud
where our heads
get smaller
over millions
of years
trying to rationalize
the coming
& going
of a sun

were all wearing leather
jackets
carrying switchblades & broken
bottles we drank
them to death i
lend my ear to honesty
but you only dream in sequence
of heat to no
heat
giving more pressure to whos
on top
who is on
bottom
& why the summer is so far away
when you need it
the most
when you needed it to warm up
the wounds
of these

capricorn

never feeling naked
is why
i sleep here
smooth whitening coverage
froth
& baying ocean
dipping my pelican
hands
where the salt line
ends
& life flourishes
warm off the southern
tropic
still north of your ambitious
pride
safe from the archers
volley
nook'd in the uplands
far from a longing moons
tide

my life just took a drastic turn for the worse.

i missed a credit card payment, not because i didnt have money, well maybe i didnt, but mostly because i just forgot and now my credit limit dropped drastically by about 700 dollars so now what i was planning on using to apply for graduate school was just eliminated.

this after my previous plan of using medical study money for a medical study that i was
"sure to get into" failed because of BILIRUBIN. which is a waste product in your blood that doesnt really do anything except it can make your skin turn yellow when you bruise.

i am going to die. poor. hungry. cold. stupid. bruised.

because i am not up
tempo be
cause &
effect of broken home
or less
being on cold cement
street cracked
where i
bleed gas
or barrel warmth
to smoke &
cloud off in addiction
hide from space
in the sky

love poem

logically i maneuver back
solid hands
or was it subtle soft
not a mans
stubble lost by coarse
demands
confusing cowboy law
too much drinking - horses
trough
free to survey or wander
all the land
your nipples thighs
your soft hands
the grass of unclaimed prairie
where wild fur stands

new list

university of montana 51$ jan 5
boise state university 55$ jan 15
cornell 70$ dec 15
iowa 60$ jan 3
virginia 60$ jan 2
umass 65$ jan 15
oregon 50$ jan 15
minnesota ?$ dec 20

all this editing and re-reading of my own poetry-
im starting to feel like im losing
some sort of (thing)
some part of myself in the poems
i feel like im looking at them
and not writing them or
not feeling them and that
is very frustrating sometimes i
just start talking/writing from a voice
and im not really sure where its from
or whats going on
its not even so much just in this
the editing and re-reading but
its all over in everything that i do
i feel like im not me sometimes
but im not really sure where i went

not hymn
(re-writ again)

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

ii
to be a collossus of
parallel tracks
& or ruble
of prone steal
reminds a bend
or some say tunnel
who is truly coming
by
& by
but still remains un—
proven what
lies
ahead

iii
standing up
for several hours &
then kneeling
before standing up once more
all the while denying
effort transcends
triumvirate bodies in
the name
of the etcetera

iv
cannot remember face
or fact by calling
out to nameless robes
in vain
though names were never
necessary
all under breath
of rib
gnostic &
believable
when darkness was
a lovely man
silhouetted by pale
hourse &
my mouth rang
with swords

v
on rocks made of skulls
you & i
sit fist-tight
against stubbled chins
waiting
for sheepskin to soak
up what is not there
or never was
some firmament
of voices
choir leering with
their omniscient
bald
beards
only watching to count
pentamerous
mistakes we make
in forgiveness
refusing to take back
all that is
set into wooden
stone by
motion
in lyrical disconnected
dissonance
they

peregrine
for ellen

beaming beat
heart wrapped tight
in powerful breast
muscles
leading eyes noting sky
drops high altitude
toward wings of
babel duck you
yell from towers of heaven
dust on my lips
lingering run—
way by o'hare
keeping owls
& owls from
finding plain or
feeble mouse walk
scaring my elephant arms
from holding on
to the memory
in your fragile shells
& graceful glide

forgetting brontosaurus

magik is
not an option
before ice plains
erase
my meteor— a drop
sewing life
buckets a dinosaur
after dinosaur
they do not clash
thundership noah-boats
clap
metaphor—
beyond the heavenly
death and again
it reminds that you
die
in several different ways
before you
ever become extinct
to hells
invention

more editing

not hymn

i.
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

ii.
to be a colossus of
parallel tracks
& or rumble
of prone steal
reminds a bend or
some say tunnel
who is truly coming
by
& by
but still remains un—
proven what
lies
ahead

iii.
standing up
for several hours &
then kneeling
before standing up once more
all the while
denying
effort transcends
triumvirate bodies in
the name
of the etcetera

iv.
cannot remember face
or fact by calling
out to nameless robes
in vain
though names were never
necessary
all under
breath of rib
gnostic &
believable
when darkness was
a lovely
man

v.
on rocks made of skulls
you & i
sit fist tight
against stubbled chins
waiting for
sheepskin to soak
up what is not there
or never was
some firmament
of voices
leering with
their omniscient
bald beards
only watching to count
pentamerous
mistakes
we make in
forgiveness

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

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

offended young bohemians

not surprise-
zing
how these bleedy
hearts used every
gosh dang
part of their friends
buffaloes
oh they so clever
seemingly naked beside
each &
every cold
month you wait for
to hide deep in woven
cotton accessories or
full body nylon nude suits
finding them
strewn about on the floor
next to the bed
of the one who came
after something
that almost
meant something
_____________________________

golden gate

knife in hand you
jabbed
the gulls neck royal tar
ooze

in the back seat
wrapped her up in news-
paper
en route

she soaked through
bloody thing
so you
double wrapped
sundays new
york times

we rolled down
the windows

because death is
unbearable
to the
nose
_____________________

honest mother fucker
wondering if
it was
true
the way words can be
so drunk
& stupid-
its pretty rare
when its tow and or
three in the morning
long after
we say some friendship
is lasting or
has lasted long enough
but to tease say
run me over
and know how easy it
can be
to go
to hell
_________________________

bum
for paul
on black top keen
to blood suckers

dreaming inches in straws
and malaria i take

deep puffy breaths
of my one last cigarette

because i left the rest
inside the faux-cabin

i wouldnt ask you for another
i wouldnt do that
___________________________

aurua
the only suburb of chicago
i can think of
and its you

i promise if i
take you there
not to tell you about
all the forty year
old women im dating

or crash my volvo
leaving you unharmed
and scared
_________________________
the discovery and conquest of mexico
for my friends
there were all but two men
in high
spirits- you say they are cross-
eyed but i
knew them by their
baptismal names
indians of our
savior
with a virgins bloated belly
carved into the chest
of all their
native lovers
and discovered enemies
leaving us to believe
cortez would be
proud &
our lord might reward
us with more
brown gold

the eternal wasps/nest
of debt i
drown baby in water
young girl trapped
at the bottom of west
virginia well min-
ding my own lack
of business you
say to be a man
to be but i
am naked to worth
my pockets are sieves
save nothing
and midas will touch my
enemies until
they are fat and dead
________________________

who cries wolf when
grown men remove
crusted snot from
each nostril
by finger
by finger
we point-out
our own flaws
and die as
everyone does
_______________________

funeral poem i

there is only one
thing that is not
fiction &
hemingway knew
_______________________

love poem
for nebraska

your women are big
boned they
sit at home
they sit at home and pray
your men are red
nosed and big
bellied they
drink away
they drink away
_______________________

you can stare at
them until they look
you can stare
& stare
thinking about what
you think
about them
you stare at
& stare
they look
______________________

i love repetition
love it
because its
easy and important
bust mostly easy
and mostly important
like a god
like a god
like a god
_____________________

dinosaurs once had
cards in their sleeves
to put your name
on them you took
them home with you
and
now they sit in museums
dusty
hoping to be loved
and
forgotten by
shotguns from idaho
____________________

you cringe &
cringe from writing so
damn much that your
paper cringes & pen
cringes
your computer cringes
and each finger to hand
to arm cringes
as a crumbling metal plane
crash
____________________

english
i went to school
to rob people of
what they dont know
and what doesnt
hurt them
_____________________
smith
i told you i would
be in ithica in one
year i told the cotton
wood be in ithica in
one year ithica in one
year leaves fall in
ithica in one year
i will write and die
in ithica its all the
same to me and you
and ithica
_____________________

love letter to my face
you are a beard i want
to be more vulgar like my
favorites dirty and more
queer and man drink more
like they do to have more
beard and be queer for them
because we drink too much
more than we should and
enjoy our beards as queers
______________________

o' city lights you
crack my side
walk you show my beau-
ty to the endless suburb
of hunters and those
who gather the writing bones
my city lights are
angels shining on mangers
of every corner
o' city lights you
knew me before edison ever
twinkled or i
ever slapped pavement w/
my face