we come to

i owe you, oh me oh
heard that before.

a womans voice is it
keeps a devil near.

walk through-- streets
your cape flows, over

here are the pennies,
cigarette butts still smoke

when the tickle hurts more
& we end with all these things,
we begin with much less.

math

write a poem for two hours every morning,
writing non-poems for years or so.

smoke several cigarettes every day & don't die,
but smoke several cigarettes every day.

i told you when you leave, this is a distance,
but when you leave, i leave without length.

measure the thickness of your skin by a pinch
which might wake you up despite a thickness.

expand the time when i exist & you know me
or is it the expansion of my belly & thighs
that meet you here to divide ourselves.

it gets cold at night

leave the window open
all night
so the mold in the ceiling doesn't kill you,
wake up, & there is a spider bite here,
here,
there is one under your armpit.

where were you when i bled out of my mouth
or spent an entire july shaving my beard

where did your words go at night
the way i would kiss air with my tongue

when did my face or my hand on your leg
become

big girls

okay so i stretch myself too thin
because i'm fatter than i used to be.

the paper route i know, skinny
or i am going to deliver.

run over each mail box on this side of town
because nobody is there to see, me.

feel her hips getting bigger as you eat them
tell her you take big bites.

it's a sin to love you from behind, but
i will take you
down to where i know my words still ring.

ours before

run my hand up your no-moss thigh
a skirt goes, or am i revealing you.

tickle the notes white against soot
but you're darker every day, i see.

the problems of breathing go in & out
but you still continue to do this, don't you,

possibilities of words stream from the naked
void, this takes away what we thought we had.

going over you again, realize that i missed a spot
which is nothing new to you
when the boys dream of making you into something.

beale st.

laughter so you do this, so you do this,
or this.

give the homeless man a dollar or more
because you know who he is & his isness.

ride your bike w/ your friends down to memphis,
get into barroom brawls you won't remember anyway.

make it easy on her, i'll take this one w/ that or,
i am going to need more time to decide.

you're not afraid of drowning these days, you're
just worried you won't be able to swim in the blues;
listen to the river pick up speed as it leaves mud behind.

oh, profile

i refrain from complementing you on a daily basis
because i am a flirt

when there is skin, or more skin
i will tell you & then i wont tell you at all

a neck wrapped around my arm
while i step on pine-cones the size of my head.

sherry on a hill

yasafuka tells me i'm changing
say, the parts were welded correctly

but the people i work next to say,
i need to shower more frequently.

their parts were not welded correctly
& are toys; say cheap labor--

i've always enjoyed the view of nebraska river valleys
looking down at them,

say: that is where i want to be burried,
& i want to say the hurt i feel
when i think about how real that is.

the three longest rivers on earth

the mississippi river is long but very poor--
a road of mud that floods & worships abrahams god.

the amazon river is long & full of sharp things--
spends half the year still while small birds walk across.

the nile is a long river & goes past some pyramids
that were built by aliens several thousands of years ago.

because we are something like the way
that we speak to friends

but you dont keep staring,
when it's too early to call late; talk

if you could be the familiar--
knew you or knew who you were,

i would let you press the apples in your hands
to my eyes when you're sad

i'll whisper you to a smallish creature
like me.
and it will sound something like this.

house of, etc.

my range of movement is restricted
by your shoulder in my shoulder,

i am eating this formerly frozen food
that i have recently unfrozen to eat.

the temptations of being eager for this,
& then you avoid telling people things.

naked is not necessarily an advantage
to doing what we do to change a view.

you come to a room in your own house
that you don't remember being there,
& paint it w/ colors that already are.

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music. - s.k.

drying off afterwards

the sounds that it makes
or wondering when it is it, she
had to admit, was something.

looks down a mile to the next cross country
sees the ugly in everybody

knows the chin the hip the tooth-smell of rotting
flees for the next town in a fit of coughing

glares at the plain the hideous and gaudy

royal
for betty ann

my mom goesby her fathers name
because my fathers names not hers

flower, a

she gave me a flower she
is the only person i can think of who has

but i lost it, or forgot it, then found it later
either way it died at some point.

chop

where i break
tail & run or
off w/ that--
my ache, my executioner, to be
more accurate
it was not you, not you, not you etc.
grass where you are
still sticking to my feet, bare foot
to the intentions of letting you love me
or when i can pay you back

for thumbs

if i had time to help at all
could i grow something in your garden

drink the water from the well,
watch the broccoli flower in the morning

shoo the rabbit, sing the robin,
wash my hands when it's time to kiss the basil

check the time before the sun goes down
i'll see her around this neck of april.

knuckles

i bend you because i have to or
i love you or this won't go anywhere
so i tell you
i love you
& i almost mean i am still here
so i am telling you i am still here
so i might tell you
i'm not leaving.

fresh fruit

gobble going gets tough
or where i leave my skin to skin

in the sun's weather weathered,
leather under where i sun my shaded self

selfish to hide. breeze i can find
seldom despite a shiftless hole--

horizon i noticed, the trees are no trees,
but the trees are still planted.

i grab you by this neck, & this neck
so they tell you the neck is detachable.

not to say

your back to carry the birds nest
made by cardigan for desert nights.

close off where you age
or where you know it shows to--

rain spitting where you tell it to spit
because the clouds are always your clouds

even when sun sneaks a snicker.

it off

nicks in your hands pads
pick out the gravel bits

too

tethered to what i am tethered to,
or what you were about to say.

apples

i slur my words
because my lack of teeth
replaced with the things i now use as teeth
instead.
or when i was young & don't remember
the side of my head hit cement & damaged my ear drum.
the cartilage in my right ear is smashed to pieces.
the cartilage in my nose is similarly broken,
but for other reasons;
it might still affect the slur in my words
because i cannot breathe through my nose
very well.
several times in any given year,
i have to explain to people why i cannot eat apples,
unless i cut them up into slices
like this.

follow

the dark blotches of skin
just above your hips
where the hormones are working
to keep you in season,

small hairs that grow down the middle
of your chest, around your nipples,
& rabbit trail.

coffea

gone from where i saw you
or is where i saw you there.

staining things on my hands
now stain the pant legs of my pants.

shower when you might come by
i do not shower often.

the soft wet dirt you want
is under the hard dry earth.

you put this seed over here, over here
& cherries grow out of me.

this is not a poem fyi

when i was in grade four--
my sister & i would get rides to school
from my sisters friends sister
who lived on our block,
though it wasn't a true block,
but they lived near by,
& i forget their names, i'm sure
my sister would remember. so
this girl, she was in high school
she would give us rides
in her maroon camaro
& every single morning from the time
she started the car
til the time she dropped us off
we would listen to what if god
was one of us, every single morning. & all
i remember is that car, that song, & the back of her head,
but for some reason, i loved her in some way.

i had this dream that i loved you
in the dream,
but i couldn't say it
so i climbed the black walnut,
that grows in the backyard
of my dream,
to hunt song birds
with my bear hands,
leaping from the high branches
& falling,
because this is what i do.
almost break my knees,
but only break both of my ankles,
crawl for days to where you're at,

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.