dad

i lay on my side for hours,
the way my father would on the living-room floor
while he watched matlock or gunsmoke or
something more grey.
a vessel or maybe a nerve starts twitching
& it bothers me so my toes curl,
i tilt my head to the side where my leaned shoulder
burns.
then my belly sleeps out, a pulling ooze
that buries the differences that were there before
i got older &
he still stays the same.

perc.

hear me, i'm
not here. following the line of flight
along the pacific coast of mexico.
so i am,
not too soon,
that you might take off for this other,
place.
i will tell you to look for me there, i'm still.

haiku 19

separate the thicker parts from what i can
swallow with a spoon
held tight against the rim as the sour cream
pours

comfort food

when i was naked,
you smiled.

long as the platte river &
then some.

there are knees here,
underbelly.

swim for the sand bar,
taste of current.

scores of places hewn from maple nut
that i am surprised to see

this far inland
sturdy as a house.

your eyes

hangman's noose, you glance
lean across what i'm looking at,
touch the harbor around bat-wing,
think the words you wrote
with your feet in the sand, will
reach the sleeping gods you know.

throat

hard on the ears, she says
my voice
enters the room & ignores everyone,
a glass put here then
picked up,
feel the room move to this room,
keep the lips & tongue
so she feels it,
& knows where i put it.

i was hoping i would write a poem tonight, but have nothing. there is absolutely nothing in me to give right now. i figured saying that might make it easier for me to go to sleep.

i was hoping i would write a poem tonight, but have nothing. there is absolutely nothing in me to give right now.

i was hoping i would write a poem tonight, but have nothing. there is absolutely nothing in me to give.

bend

thank your thighs, alright
so i say things like;
your hair isn't curly,
when you wear white socks &
black shoes i keep my thoughts
to myself, put one hand below
your rib cage & still kiss places
of you that look like boys.

neighbor

i break as the east wall
because i have to,
you see this.
the wet leak curves the wood,
so it seems to be a globe,
or some
world i spell with a slang.
& even though you devote
your entire life
to something,
it still leads you
over the edge
& into the next room.

dream

we, linked at the pearls
desperate because we have to be.
you knowing
where you put the keys
when i don't know where the keys
are.
cheating on her,
or i cheat on this one,
because things are easier
when we can both be half way.
the cost of this
drains you from the eyes
where sleep sits
& waits for tomorrow to take.

we moved in

shotgun shells over there by the mound of dirt--
he plays in.
whether you're going here, or
here, or there, it's gravel road for miles. then more dirt.

when humid summer suffocates
drenching you in sweat
you can feel the acrid reek of the sheep farm
a country mile to the east,
as it seeps between the cracks of your leather

half indian boy in the corn field
stepping on fresh manure.
the walls you can hear through, feel
the expanding plain
stretch you from genoa to scottsbluff.

but the whip of wind against white washed walls
is nothing to trouble you
or the pioneer family that drags behind,
because this is a temporary stay,
all of it will pass. all of it.

coast

in the west where you're from
they hold their words
like this
in their mouth
so it rolls around before barely--
tasting,
the taste of it tastes like fresh fruit
grown in their backyards.
the bitter citrus & warm acid
makes me happy,
because i cannot have them.

a poet you should know is

mao zedong. while reading about j.d. salinger i stumbled across the note that catcher in the rye had sold over 65 million copies worldwide and i wondered- what books have sold the most. obviously religious texts such as the bible and qur'an have reportedly sold a shit ton, but i was surprised to see a book of poetry near the top. mao zedong's poetry to be exact, selling a reported 400 million copies. eat that salinger.


heres a sneak peak

I

Mountains!
I whip my swift horse, glued to my saddle.
I turn my head startled,
The sky is three foot three above me!*

II

Mountains!
Like great waves surging in a crashing sea,
Like a thousand stallions
In full gallop in the heat of battle.

III

Mountains!
Piercing the blue of heaven, your barbs unblunted!
The skies would fall
But for your strength supporting.


you can read more here

times

when i get drunker than i wanna be--
i do this thing where i make
believe;
a happiness is easy

yard tree

green-apple, planted before
we moved to prague
& there when we left.
still nothing sour--
about the year i was four,
memory of falling
& the sounds it made.

run

how you want it to be,
diagonal marks for when you check
yourself in the mirror; clean
the white snot streaks off your sweater sleeve
so it doesn't seem this way,
scratch deep with nails
& let the throat do all the work,
because no one will notice
you, except you.

drive

empty skin pouring out
your neck highways past the window
i don't spend my time
waving my hand out the car
point ahead to where i go
but my naked arms are telling
of the scars that scare me clean
when hell is a place
& i'm sure you & i can agree
it's easier to ignore what hurts
or to make it seem
like something important-- to anyone
else.

georgia

i always fell in love w/ you
again
side by side in a car

smooth

maybe i'll head there,
midnight place for strangers--
lie about who holds onto who,
or settles.
ask who put these rings around
my eyes, mine--
birthmarked wood, axed.
bench & a tree who used to go
up in smoke
when i ran my hand across &
the splinters were there to help
pick out the grain,
or tell me where i should sew it.

happens to me
now
happen to you

left

in the sticks or where you go
boon to epileptic bane--
i'm bragging because i'll
leave with-out you
hear mountain calls from a lover neck
up & down any hemisphere
but
all of these mentions of get out
are encouragements
for my own escape of life

skins

she nicks your heel
w/ the axe-pick from the shed
her father bought
in the 70's
at the rendezvous re-enactment--
before she was born.
but you didn't know
she still had it.

rabbit after midnight

sprint the blue moon, too far
for us to feel
when your ears perk-up
as i kiss at your neck for days,
long tails
swift over the powdered snow,
so i can follow them
again & again, where you like.

scattered

the strength of the drink
quiets the stampede.
belief in sand hills
hid by pasture & laughter,
arcane antelope speaks for--
knows god & all.
prairie fire every inch of it
between soiled souls
of feet, i am, nothing
but grass grown in slow gait,
measurements over ground,
layered dust, etc.


cedar canyon

so they come
from reaches of western nebraska
bluffed over broken teeth
of pan-
handled mothers'
midnight wondering, their shoulders
shrug to forget what their sons do
on gravel-road-feet, unphased
by the sting
(north american whisky & cheap
reservation cigarettes)
howling—
we have the option to sin—
at the prairie moon

no fish

there was no rain last night
woke up early
hoping we might go fish south of town,
a man-made lake
& no fish even swim there.
just want to sit in a boat,
& wait
for anything to bite,
not say a single word
about why you think nobody loves you,
or complain
about how things never worked out
the way we anyone wanted,
or understand why
we never bring any bait.

signal

feel the earth on your feet
so the snakes know why you're there
venom in the morning
a drip
for you my darling
cut through the thick bananna leaf
or cocaine fields--

see the smoke rising along
the latin american coast
to let the peregrine find another meal
somewhere

in the middle

i pulled a womans hair from my mouth
& spit
what morning had left me in a can beside my bed.
i am not sure
where she came from
having not been w/ anyone for months,
but there she was
hanging from my mouth; a lure.
making me question
who
sleeps in my bed besides me,
frustrated because i was just getting used
to myself
i had come to terms w/ forgetting bodies.

cave

notice more & more
this howl from a tooth--
ache
warns you of the cold
that swells old injuries
or the broken candies
you sucked
for days.

hey paul check out giovanni carmazzi

collapse

it's the thought she left there or
when
beginning again with the eyes
was easy, see her
in hundreds of small towns
to return to,
because i found her there once
half-way gone as i reached out
& said
a small gust to carry away.

squallor

wheres the candle or the money
to pay for the gas bill
or the stove
i drink water sometimes when i'm hungry
which doesn't always make sense
but it works sometimes
though it's hard to want something
that you hear all night
dripping from the part of the ceiling
that peels away
& you're afraid that the animals
in the attic might scratch through
the rotten wood
& fall on top of you
in the middle of the night.

colorado

i.

the closer &
closer i
get to denver
the more &
more i
wish i had bought you breakfast this morning

ii.

hot ash stings the eyes
the sun reflecting off brown grass
near yuma
where the spine of some america
shades my face,
lonely as a tunnel train.

iii.

driving past dairy farms on i 76
my mind lactates you
wonder
what i mean without
me ever saying
a word

iv.

there is nothing
more empty than your bones
eastern colorado
knowing past glaciers
have kissed
your fathers neck leaving
him feeling much nearer
to heaven
or what heaven might feel like
if he would have gone there.

v.

i wanted to say something before i left
either to you or this or you
about the stars & the city
how i wasn't sure which
one i was above or below
knowing neither were
other plains
of existence & your face lit up--
but
god had been absent
from this rocky
purgatory
for some time.

o' city lights
o' city lights you crack my side
walk you show
my beauty to the endless suburb of hunters
& those who gather the writing bones

o' city lights are the late night owls
looming over fields
& every corner the mice scatter--

o' city lights you
knew me before i ever sparkled or
when i
slapped pavement w/ my face

labor day

we fool them w/
our smiling faces
women in a pigeon age
knees knock in difining
moon from moon
says moon repeatedly
every night repeatly
behind the stars, she loves the diving hawks
who kill.
but you forgot the actual time you
swallowed all of the tramadol
& made your fingers
smoke even after there was no more smoke to give--
a wiked smell thickened the air
somewhere near your
home
or maybe think this is
my house for now.

shake

i am broke because
the sun is filtered by what i see
or i can stand in a river
where it goes up past my ankles or
to my knees
that sometimes shake &
hit themselves together
bones that make music
but don't break
though i am here
where you put me
& this is why

slow

where the hangman's hand hold you
tell him to let go
the sound of a dead horse beaten
forgets you
where the gates are left open
& all the animals leave
for the ocean
because that is where things go

the temptation of

the night when you are beautiful,
& i saw.
a stranger for penny; change where you like
to put it.
around here somehwere is a picture
that i keep.
treasure is not something i do,
but i dig deeper
to find a weapon from childhood--
dull.
you look at me like i am a bird,
feathered & falling.

beach

walk half naked
dune the sands
of the florida gulf
littered w/ teeth
of sharks so small
they will never
eat you whole.

nomadic

unsure where ultra-marine melts
in your hand
hold the big sky, a pink piece
of your face on the cheek--
a thousand or so natives build camp here,
& taste the plants of warning
so they might see god or
become her & dance around the eyes,
peacock feathers nest
in their hair
as if it was supposed to look like that.

millions of if's

he writes down every step, things he might do
by day & hour in a spiral note book
that he leaves on the floor where he sleeps.
lists who he might tell & in what order
chooses his wife: first
because he should love her & maybe does
but she doesn't know that,
she doesn't know about any of this.

prey

woke with a sleep-hawk; up
slay pigeons where i lie.
tallon from one corner to the next
where towered stone scrapes their sky.

the temptation of

the night when you are beautiful
a stranger for penny; change where you like
to put it.
around here somehwere is a picture
that i keep,
treasure is not something i do--
but i dig deeper
to find a weapon from childhood--
dull.
you look at me like i am an angel,
cloaked & falling.

happen light on the slipping drift
fog not where your eyes stare
makes me lonely in a pretty way
writing with your finger through my hair
shed the forest from the field
w/ each breath of winter's dry air
feel the warmth of death linger
cold as hell but not quite there

drift

steady in the lungs, fox fur mixes in
because she likes it there.
a finger, a space, a finger, a space etc.
fuss across.
do you really listen,
or is it the voice that leads--
breathing smoke whether its cold outside or not.
she tells everything to hold still
while she does this to you.

billowing

nimble the night sky thins where you don’t see shadow
grow.
naked as your bird call on the western plain of cherry highland,
silhouette of fleeing pheasant:
the winter cannot hold.
hawks in the growth of coarse rope
tight beneath my clattered chin,
broken when the ice melt
& no-one saw it go--
flush, a nice red face
bark up the wrong &
bite the sickle off these bent trees
spindle, through some three dog night
& still growing older--
a motion that keeps us & holds us
until we weigh nothing
then it drops our paper frames from clouds high up there,
where we never saw before.

walk home

flush, a nice red face
bite the sickle off these bent trees
spindle, through some three dog night
& still growing older--
a motion that keeps us
& holds us until we weigh nothing
then it drops our paper frames from clouds
high up there.
where we never saw before.

a color

polka-dot riddle eyes so vast
the sea sees what you sink--
words inside of my mouth;
lost,
but where the moon leaves,
you understand what space to fill--
circling
until im dizzy, irises
point inward at what makes me go
this way.

un-plowed

when i'm crazy but not broken
as the wendigo shrill wind
through walls & windows soft
porous sea-grated stone
skulk along smoked streets laid
hand by hand, i know
the route guided by silk-worm spindle
steams off the fault-rock
of rust-giving salt & sap
not realizing this is too far north
or how sane it will take me to leave,
but i can go on like this for some time
i think. walking still,
walking.

king size

separate rooms they snore
w/ pillows over heads
so they cannot hear each other
or anything
when they touch bodies
each discovers something
they miss the skin & friction for
wait on lips to touch it
but none of this when they dream
none of this is there.

c

dangle there cigarette, said lip
fitting where i kiss you
let me
but i won’t, he says again
love you more than the next
a puff where you exit
& warms the throat
smell of organic
smolder slowly towards
me, as a moment
let me
go.

around

don’t step so loud he
hears you coming, with those ears
wrap of wind & no trees stand stoic
by the banks of so many rivers.
your neck casts shadow
across the great circumference of his belly
that reminds you of hills in central-nebraska
where all you have to do is breathe
& someone else might know you’re there
even if they can’t see you.
even if they never actually see you.

hofstra drops football program after 69 years

not w/o a punchers chance, giovanni carmazzi cried
all of colonial pride
& by god, is it not, criminal to leave the american sport
to long island buzzards
holding no grudge over the flying dutch
or the nostalgic down they touch
waiting for the whistle of city towers
counting back clock time
for when we can play away the hours
& forget this deviled crime.

three dogs

bark up the wrong,
nimble, the night sky
thins where you don’t see shadow
grow.
naked as your bird call on the western plain
of cherry highland,
the silhouette of fleeing pheasant—
hawks in the growth of coarse rope
tight beneath my clattered chin,
broken when the ice melt,
& no-one saw it go.

what he says

i’m sorry about the moving truck
outside of our home
but i’m leaving you, going to chicago
there is no one else
there is no one at all for me
that’s why i’m leaving; this will be better for us both
don’t say anything you might regret
& who knows
by the time our only child is older
maybe i’ll be back
maybe things will have changed by then
something this backwards has to turn right
at some point.

flying dutchmen

i’m learning how to improve my sky-hook
w/ jeff malone
the nephew of moses malone.
bang that ball on the garage door—
& the neighbors hate me,
but who needs ‘em
i say to all the neeighbors’s kids
that i’m learning how to improve my sky-hook
w/ jeff malone
the nephew of moses malone,
who played @ hofstra as a sophmore
& averaged 2.4 points & 1.4 rebounds per game,
but the neighbors’s kids say who
who is moses malone
& i say he is the uncle of jeff malone
but they still don’t get it
they just don’t understand who he is.

comb

honey comes slow from you,
golden hairs mingle, a toe curl—
makes it difficult to walk
away.
feeling folksy in my fingers
to tell you where i’ve been
& why
it hasn’t been w/ you.
because i hibernate
deep in the mountain
where trees never change &
my words come in spring to bloom,
places that rarely see enough sun,
suddenly do.

fingers

deviled boys grease each other
their hands
dip
nothing watches them; always talks to them,
pale doldrums, a wave of wheat--
floats above, at attention. grabbing
out-stretched pink arms licked by fat
take it all.

untitled

we are no longer women; straining our necks with the weight of our breasts
long slender necks that pursuade to the chin,
hold out our heads as bulbed-white gods.
every beat, a momentum in continuous form,
every call, a light-house directing the point,
barking vees arrow the parallel ground,
some surface that knew us until we learned how to do this.


down

knee deep in your daily beast
funny is the way i hear.
holding your egg in the cave of my chest,
i am comfortable beneath the phoenix down
& even the wind that drives me naked
across the desert i was born,
a mattress of cattle-stamp wheat
& heralds hark, beauty under bluffed cloud.

alzheimers

i've had apples
i've had good apples
i've had all kinds of apples
my sister, shes 93, she lives in a nursing home
i visit her every day
except yesterday when it rained
her name is elizibeth taylor, shes 93
i hope i never get alzheimers
i hope i can live as long as my sister
& you might call me a religious fanatic
but when god calls you
you gotta go

failed attempt @ ampersand in multiple fonts

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my fourth year

the apple tree that fell on my sister
the car that talked
until the bank took it back
my father standing on the porch while the rest of us hid from the tornado
my giraffe pajamas
i found out what professional wrestling was— and loved it
scraping my leg on the concrete wall
losing my tonsils
telling my mom i hated her for making me take that disgusting orange medicine
eating sugar out of the cupboard
dreaming of women
i would ride my babyblue rocking horse for weeks
rolling the grain of my bedroom floor
the purple light-bulb my mother would put in the bathroom
i would get so excited to see that way

i have friends who wrestled in aurora
(for paul clark)

horses
something you don’t think about
as a defining a man
horses as they should be
where he’s from
but can’t remember
he rides these horses & can’t remember
their names but
he rides horses & i almost s'd
my mother rides horses
but not the same
no mustache
no fist on chin
all bruised up
no kids
or at least ones that can be remembered
they have names
all horses have names
something like
but he can’t remember
& he s'd he feels really bad
i agree
it’s all fists on chins
trying to remember where y’re from
& what you named yr kids

i have friends who wrestled in aurora
(for paul clark)

horses, something you don’t think about as a defining point
in a man
horses as they should be
where he’s from, but he can’t remember
he rides these horses & can’t remember their names
but he rides horses & i almost said my mother rides horses
but not the same
no mustache, no fist on chin-- all bruised up
no kids, or at least ones that can be remembered
they have names,
all horses have names,
something like, but he can’t remember
& he said he feels really bad.
i agree.
it’s all fists on chins
trying to remember where you’re from
& what you named your kids.

boat house



crumble to find sparrow nest adjacent to us
splinters where we’re told not to be children
my hand moves between the deck grain
small brown pears smooth the floor
keep my head level as the structure sways
focused on your naked feet

last night i was downtown for a birthday party. at one point i was fairly intoxicated by various things when i was getting berated for playing dungeons and dragons. so i went to a different part of the bar 10 feet away or so to talk to someone else. the conversation turned to me explaining my position on why star wars is more real than star trek. when i was finished, this angry asshole said to me, what if i picked you up and threw you on the fire and burned you alive. explain that to me. and i said, that has nothing to do with star wars. (unless he was talking about burning vader, which he wasn't because this angry asshole probably knows nothing of star wars). so i, being a friendly drunkard, make a friendly bet, saying i bet you 10,000$ you couldn't burn me alive on that fire pit, and then i was about to say something else to clarify that point when the angry asshole picked me up and threw me on the fire pit and held me down on top of the fire. he then pulled me off and said you owe me 10,000$ and i said no because i'm still alive and not burned alive. thinking he was still... kind of joking, and then he said, do you think i'm joking and i was confused. because yes i thought he was joking. what kind of crazy mother fucker tries to burn a complete stranger on a fire for talking about star wars? i assumed he was just a trek fan because he looked like a total douchebag. anyway so he grabs me again and at this point i get serious and im like what the fuck man, what the fuck are you doing you crazy cunt, or something like that. and then hes like im gonna go and i said yeah you better go and then he left and i smoked a cigarette to calm down. on my way out i told the bar tender and he gave me a free drink and told me that if i ever see him let the bartenders know and they will kick him out. FOREVER. i hope i see that angry crazy trekkie cuntbag. not that i would really do anything because im a big nerdy wiener, but i relish in my power of being able to get him kicked out.

the park

you are not the fog i describe, warm these vents as events arrive;
a holiday garish though, woman laughs--
you recognize it’s gold-leaf rasp
watch in fall as they glide over the dead grass.

right before getting kicked out of o’rourkes


splitting hairs, here, my honeyed hands,
glued to the glide of autumn hustle.

she makes more bird calls than i care to say,
i say,

& respond, writing words in the stalls,
intimately attached to my wrist, & elbow.

when it’s not gift-wrapped as cats & dogs,
barrels by barrels,

everything sits still, & the smoke saunters,
teetering on the edge of a gutter.

a whole family of farmers finds water

they speak to the stars & know the weather
years before or after
grow soy beans between their dirty fingernails cleaned
burrying them in blue-jean gardens.
whether bending down over or creeking back up,
their pockets loaded w/ soil,
reaping the maize, fall fields golden ablaze,
they toil, they toil, they toil.

hybrid animal

fuzz tucked under arm, sleeping moon.
a milk line goes, spittle,
she smiles, you think.
feasting from forested phoenetics
& caught drooling down dimples.
not what you were expecting, say to yourself,
mirror, mirror.
her legs gazelle, lark in throat,
repeating everything you say
as if you never said it.
leaving wing beats in your belly, only.

duck killers

being afraid of loneliness,
or attempts to stay that way.
your hand reaching for summer, etc.
asking questions & not answering them
as a note
of depth
line dragging further away from shore line,
wondering where you draw it, a radius of hands
between spirituality & unkempt beard, involuntary fasting.
something goes awkward into the deep end,
where the un-cut-six-pack-plastic-rings—
forgetting the line, taut.
then noticing.

duck killers

being afraid of loneliness,
or attempts to stay that way.
your hand reaching for summer, etc.
asking questions & not answering them
as a note
of depth
line dragging further away from shore line,
wondering where you draw it, a radius of hands
between spirituality & unkempt beard, involuntary fasting.
something goes awkward into the deep end,
where the un-cut-six-pack-plastic-rings—
forgetting the line, taut.
then noticing.

silent

autumned ribs fold in percussion,
extend drum, nipple from brittle cage.
fingers prod shards of glass, imbedded to make sound,
echoes from mouth toward impending fall
drop scales shed over us
until we are burried above ground.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH I ACCIDENTLY DOUBLE PAID BOTH OF MY CREDIT CARDS FOR A TOTAL OF ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS SO NOW I HAVE NO MONEY BUT ONE OF THOSE CREDIT CARD PAYMENTS WAS OVER THE BALANCE SO THEY ARE SENDING ME A CHECK BUT I WONT GET IT FOR 30 DAYS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 >:o

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH I ACCIDENTLY DOUBLE PAID BOTH OF MY CREDIT CARDS FOR A TOTAL OF ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS SO NOW I HAVE NO MONEY BUT ONE OF THOSE CREDIT CARD PAYMENTS WAS OVER THE BALANCE SO THEY ARE SENDING ME A CHECK BUT I WONT GET IT FOR 30 DAYS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 >:o

drank, drank. ate, drank, ran into a fence. drank drank. yes there was this fence across the street of some street. ten feet high. there were no signs that said, "BEWARE, FENCE!" and so i ran right into the fence at full speed on my bicycle. my head hurts now that i think about it, and not just because what we drank. its the second time that i ran full speed into a chain link fence. the other time was when i was riding my bike away from cops when i was a sophmore in highschool. i hadn't done anything illegal but it was late and the cops were chasing. it is not a good thing to run full speed into a chain link fence on a bike. it is a bad thing. this ten foot high chain link fence. at least they give. at least it wasn't a stone wall or a bus.

mississippi

haft headed i shan’t dance, decked.
o’ jolly, she battle hymns of unmarked graves,
prairie college dunce for more medicine, to cure,
to leave & come back, knows
where they bury them all. ‘in hell,’ she says.
barge sail by arm toward the south, rising
down beneath the gulf of mexico’s,
where earth, pools her words,
pelican belly gathering in hattiesburg,
& siphons the sludge of your somber prayers
say:
dream to me in drawl, boy,
wandering beyond moon or tide, sulfur stench in the sky,
& i will take you with me, again, ‘to hell,’ she says.
tip-toe from the mouth, through & through.


american wildlife

peaking when we pine
porous as the wind leaves,
needles we drink until we poke.
restless on the edge of indian statue,
he points
at the wine inside us, abandoning
broken body on the plains
near the caged bison, caribou. wandering.
they whisper into our ears
with their thick whiskered tongues,
but we cannot understand their words.
only the cud grinding
& the pant of boredom, where the flies
feast on manna in each eye, beast to naming beast,
reflecting the disaster inside us;
a swelling thing easily ignored.


after

he comes out of the room, one room the other wasn’t in,
with a towel around his neck
& his hair slicked back, looking ghastly ill.
he comes
dark rings around the eyes,
& the other sits on the sofa, but doesn’t
look up,
pouring a drink into a glass. slow.
inside something is changing their minds.
he hears the ice move, but keeps walking towards it.


the basic horn

whimpers in white, louder than song,
but you disagree, listening
in the darkness as the cat cries, & cries
& we never know when to say:
do not do this
or just do this, “scram,”.
left or right,
correcting my neckline, strangling tie, loosely drawn
so the loop of thigh echoes by nipple, down arm,
agreeing to clench at the same time
claw clinging to all the furniture
we bought together, flea markets, something, etc.,
before everything is blown,
again this is louder than we can hold between
small apartment walls,
out of proportion a second too late
knocking on the unlatched door
to find me there.

No submissions or poems that have been previously published. We consider “published” is published. This includes small, private editions, and even poems previously posted on blogs and personal web sites. - orange and sardines publication

canoe #1

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
catfish salt, bottom feeder
under the nose when i hear those riverboats whistle
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 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

im finally out of the medical study for good. next sunday im going to host a writers group at my house. 7pm. 1121 D st. everyone will be there!

pale horse

when i want him he will come
to my door,
my eye.
i will look at him with all of my hands, holy
to trust.
never forget
the face of a complete stranger
when his sword strikes me down
& burns within me.
when there is nothing left but his love,
or hell below.

-------------------------------

hubris

the sun does not shine for lowly me
the moon is but a mirror for thee
raising tides along a darkened sea
tricking all to think there may be three

-------------------------------

no hibernate

wind doesn’t even move
so swift
when moisture becomes wicked

it hangs thick on branches
or on the roof top shingles of homes

& at night everything lights up.

you close your eyes,
take graying images in freeze frame
while molecules of empty noise expand.

a shiver moves past you from somewhere off
while you think about sleeping,
tired from several months of digging
with your numb hands.

i just spoke to an incredibly stupid woman. first she asked me if i was a spy for obama because obama is listening to everyones phonecalls and doing survelience on people. i said no. later in the survey when i asked her about health care she said that she didn't have health care because she was unemployed and couldn't afford it. obama you evil man, trying to give this woman health care. she told me her blood pressure was high because he son went to iraq to defend his country. TO DEFEND HIS COUNTRY. defense. she said she was a pentacostal christian and i asked if she wanted me to put down protestant and she said no im a pentacostal. so, like MOST ignorant christians, i had to put down that she was an OTHER christian religion. apparently there are SEVERAL different christian religions. she then said she was a republican but that she didnt know if she was a conservative or a liberal. she asked her daughter, who apparenlty didnt know what her mother was. she said i think im a conservative but i dont believe in all that hooha.

it is because she is undeducated. all of it. oh and she also has been living off of unemployment for OVER A YEAR. 1500 DOLLARS A MONTH. THAT IS MORE THAN I MAKE AT MY JOB. DOING A JOB. AND SHE IS A REPUBLICAN MY ASS. get this damn liberal out of the white house god dammit so we can WORK FOR OUR SHIT. go fuck yourself republicans.

i wrote a bunch of poems this morning. my mom yelled at me when i asked for a ride to work. im applying to be a liquor store manager. i finally trimmed off the long section of hair on the back of my head that stuck up all the time. im at work right now. i trimmed my mustache. i will have to shave my beard if i get this job. i really dont like that. i like my beard. i miss ellen and i hope she misses me too. im going to buy a bus ticket to see her next week. the ticket will be 21 days after i buy it though because thats how long i have to buy in advance to get the best price. which is essential. im seriously considering this portland thing. though i will have to see what ellen is doing, and if people are actually moving to colorado. i think i would like to live in portland. or somewhere. i dont like that i have so many relatives on facebook. i dont like that my relatives are politically irrational morons. religious mostly. i dont like that my dad said god spoke to him about being a bad parent and now hes going to try harder. that really pissed me off.

evergreen

i’m sentimental
where you touch the space
in between
one rib and two
fingers walking down piano tickles
light whiting from the closet moon
sneaking face
through the forest around me
who say:
where you are going
we are shadow.
so i open my hands
feeling the sap stay.

PUPPIES DRESSED AS CATS

whisky

i cannot tell them.
my father
who walks too,
feel the rash of corn leaf
running along your thigh,
romantic rows of undaunting nudity,
fat on the bone.
you mark notches by nibbles
to see how tall you grow
& again
back in the pivot;
as you once were before the seeds took root
smelling poison from the lips
& still kissing them.

-----------------------------

bath

there in the claw-foot tub
my body
folds over itself, curling
carnival mirror
to you
fresh with soap suds
suckling where i rest my eyes

-----------------------------

snow tires

you whisper in the passenger seat
nearly asleep
about disliking the cold

as i keep driving over the
permafrost of distant hells

knowing it's so much easier
to drive south

god being
an omnipotent weight

-----------------------------

white

watching boy swim albino bellied
narwhal
tooth jutting from his face
he nibbles
at the shimmers of sun
reflecting on crests of sea
biding his time
until he learns
to fly towards the light

----------------------------

the forms of midnight

there are times
when arms
lay down under the dark skin
of the night
peeling each bottle that rescues me
out of my hands –
silencing venomous lips
rest over my headless
face
saying things
that sleep into the afternoon
& never realize
that last night
i said the same words
only with less thought
saying; the moon,
it hangs
even when the sun is on us.

camp

woodcutter girl who listens
awake she dives
through the deep sea noise
approaching pit-pat
on the one-man tent
reminding her
of a nothing
keeping the portal closed
from when she was
so much younger
& couldnt afford to be alone

looking

standing naked in front
of my bedroom window
i feel
the cowlick on the back
of my head
running all the way down
my spine
& tail
the never ending list
of skeletons in me

the basic horn

she whimpers in white
you disagree
i cry
& we never know when to say
do not do this
or just do this
a knife & a gun surgically
placed between each butt-cheek
left or right
your neckline strangling tie
agreeing to clench
at the same time
before everything is blown
out of proportion a second
too late
she knocks on the unlatched door

tonight i was drunk off of old style, watching falling/shooting stars out in the country. we started talking. or i did. about religion/evolution/everything in between bla bla bla. and i thought. what the hell is the point. of anything.

moving past us

the bloody turn of his moon halved arm
coos me back into the den—
a cockatoo rimmed with rice feathers,
holy black eyes
smoking rolled cigarettes
tight
in a chain with it’s lizard toes
reminding me of when i kissed you
we both
tasting stale fire,
overpriced indian food in
our teeth.
he leaves trails of himself on the wood floor
making sure not to disturb the line of air
from the oscillating fan

numb

round those boots through the snow
leaves me angel trails
where i swallow the cold
their little heads
say we fall
our faces bright as strawberries
mention who i love
behind the blue shadow of a carless garage
where the season sits still
hidden from windows and streets
so we can bite
the necks of each other
feeling nothing at all

utility

we take our flashlights with us
to the bathroom
when we pee

not because we’re scared—
i’m not anyway

are you

a question i should have asked
before venturing into the dark alone

bladder full
oh this madness

we being children
we being poor

so, last night i bought chaplain (cat) some cat liter. i was too drunk/tired to change out his liter box at 2am so i waited til this morning. which was a mistake. he tore the bag open, apparently knowing the contents, and shat multiple times in the pile of liter on the floor. then when he was finished slept on top of me until i woke up, then he jumped up and started meowing very loudly until i followed him downstairs so he could show me what he had done.

two other points to note about chaplains recent adventures. one, he threw up in one of my shoes. two, he knocked down some boxes out of a closet in the storage room. i went in to clean up after him when i heard it to find a sevenish inch purple vibrating dildo on the ground. complete with wrinkly nut sack. i suppose it might have been larger than seven inches. either way it was a strange find. i think the first dildo i have ever seen in person, not in a sex store. maybe. i think so.

since i dont have internet at my house, and usually write my poetry on my laptop and then go use internet on other computers elsewhere, it becomes somewhat difficult to post poetry on the internet. i know that is not really going to matter though.

when are people going to realize that taxes are a good thing. maybe when the government starts using them with intelligence i guess. spending billions of dollars on national defense when people dont have jobs or health care or a proper education is pretty smart.

the power in my house has apparently been shut-off.