facebook oriented sci-fi novel

the movie 2012 was the modern retelling of
the great flood
when the gurus of facebook
get fed up
with making all that crazy greenback
and suddenly with out warning
vanish
facebook
from the walls of the internet
to revel in their new found demi-god status
while the world
eats it's self in the chaos.

george w. bush

i tried feverishly
to get it done
get it over with
i tried violently
so i wouldn't think
about fucking
all day at work
i tried everything

this morning

charm me a late sleeper
kid?
i know who hogs the sheets.

grab at you with my eyes
shut
reaching for your snooze.

horoscope
for taurus

when i see you in my spring i
kick up dirt
next to a lake i used to dream
i drove one of my old cars
a white cavalier my parents bought me
to get rid of money before
their bankruptcy
i drove the car into a lake
in my dream
and somehow this is about you

sand.gravel.limestone V.

did you expect me to be
this beautiful
bum you my arm for awhile

tell the day god, day
god
keep this thing going on and on

so the she of it stretched my
everything
i said
begin with the nose
so she

knows that i cannot be trusted,
and keeps thinking
of why i might not be as
beautiful

becoming, of you

thats how i met my
current girlfriend, overheard--
etc. stories
of how she bathes like a flamingo
pink; pees down her leg,
digs through soil as some-other
animal
searching for crawling meals

the girls i love
make a museum few would care to see
even w/ minimum donation;
stiff-dead grizzly bear
in mid-fish.

anyone

round me off at the back-bone
under my kidney
so i will know your wing-span

the speckled mole line
where fingers will run
know that i have been there before

but yours
is the one that makes me
lay on the floor
watching your shows w/ you.

beans and motherfuckers

tell the story of how i never
peed the bed
and the purple lightbulb

maybe some early sex dream

the roads are dangerous tonight
so i can use
war slang like in the shit

million-dollar-wound

someone once told me
about roadies blowing cocaine
into stevie nix' ass

station

so you faked the sad parts, my arms
cry big boat-
load the shoulder, making turn
after turn, after

you notice my lack of ampersands
and teeth
the venom kind, kinda like
poetry is not.

sand on the cement for slip
control'd behavoir
in the lost pit of midwest territories

cabin fever'd and
name yourself log-hands

cry, and cry until your brain fizz'z
interlock
knuckle bones
mention to me more about this secret
world you got

river poem
for reggie

when i is all there is
i

river you,

see the movement
salt on
the bottoms

the lazy way
i
will never

the bloody thing
mend with water

binds
the rest of i

minnesota

the slick leaves
i wiped
out on my bike in front of the drivers ed car

i know how to swim i'm just
bad at it
reminds me of swimming naked in the pool

and im walking now
while im writing this
down
my calves and shins a wreck

i think of you though
walking
faster than me

the genie of rock falls

'dutch' reagan wished
he could be an actor
maybe a cowboy from brooklyn
a kid can dream
for cheap cigarettes anywhere

swinging ladies from swinging vines
turning anything into wine

locals claimed a miricle
when two menards sprung up
next door to each other,
the selfish and their wielded weapons

the distance is a river,
no the stretching arm of want
claims more lives than a boot
legger,
where is your boot i ask

can you fix your pot holes
can you stop slashing our tired travel
because i said i would be
the coolest person in rock falls

someone already wished for that,
fifty years later
they were able to wish for it again
right before dying
because, to be cool is more than a fonz
more than being
the next american president.

chicago made paul go bald

the messes of dircetions
extended caffiene life
forms the top

yell out the moving car
fog, why are you still here

then it clears
for the towers
the one with the richest
woman in the world

she will never be my woman,
she will never ride in my car
lost through south chicago
blasting biggie smalls
waiting for the fog to clear

beard poem
for paul

the jaw angle hangs fat

do you still believe in ten
commandments?

were my hands any stronger
i could hurt you easy by saying it

look up words
to say

say, the part of me that hurts is
every part

so i eat less--

heroin is nothing to me, me.
unless i want to 'come in my pants'

and i told you about this
train, i said you took

but you took absolutely
nothing from me, the haves

my dirty underwear maybe
my lonliness

or the spit
on my hands

to grip the grip tighter
to nail it

to leave my face
at home.

print

form of worship, your head
on my thigh, pillow dog
i am less naked when you are
looking

the befores and afters are when
my clothes come off
or simply wont hide

you found the time
when the sidewalk
was smoothed.

fish jaw

i will talk
under a mouth bone
artificial structure added
but unable to chew

through, thumbs for teeth
plucked at the joints or
cherry picker

will i talk
nice words about you and your
pretty bacteria
unseen on my swinging

knees bent in unmoveable buck,
hip tall boots
grabbing at river darts

show me your true talk
over in the shallow
where the river moves slow

re-application

use the feet for function
all the ground being tight-rope
damp in romantic

because socks are for sandals
here, rotting wood pile
a poem about trees

tall living soulless, is
nose stubs, bent up branch
run my licked thumb over your eyebrow

girl thing
bite at the air passing between
your arm and ribcage, skinned

and jacketed
covered in water, can you
stop thinking

you are such a forest, moving
toward the moon
the top of your head breaking clouds

merry x-mas

haiku 27

write this down about you
without you's

why am i fixed
on parts that will break

on this body there
is no body at all

poetry reading vidz

CHECK OUT VIDEOS OF R. WOLFE AND ME AT OUR FIRST FRIDAY POETRY READING :D thanks jessica

sex poem

sewn in by the winter monger,
sweat feet in the dark, socks,
walking.

does the Atlantic make you gravy;
heroes and heroes are the same
as anyone making it.

it is just work,
the things i do for you, you etc.
kissing your hip too soon.

it is a bone but
i would like to thank you for
the sex i guess.

porn poem
formerly known as kryzewski

a proverbial winter wonderland, i
never saw it coming

beautiful ice sculptures of naked women
and large
toys

my brother lost his job when the porn shop
burned down
many people lost their
jobs

the things you can see, or subject them
into being actual people, on fire.

i haven't decided how it might affect me.

the only time i have ever been in a porn shop
was for moral support
when dane wanted to buy playing cards with naked fat women
on them.

that was around christmas too.

hong kong foot

hard as it would be to wash some socks
for your boy

let him run around outside barefoot
for the wild of it

make him dream of playing football
for jon madden

science fiction

everything burns

the minutes i sing song,
another man, or man thing--

exit beauty, you
on heels. call me.
venomous coward/inward boy

know that you leave me; know that
when two quirks combine
a mass is lost or
i wont think about that

for winter, and drinking

then the snow fell, again
the pears from the pear tree still on the ground

have you ever been this warm
in my old sweaters

and did the birds see it coming,
or
were you asking me.

deer poem

deep into the deer season
my idle neck bucks

the leather here
is the tannest of all
reach to the drop tine

take hold

scout on what might leap out!
you
from the cover of indian grass

my knees rubbing the dirt
begging the earth
that neither of us is armed or wanting.

translation

markings on my face from berries,
my face the abandoned house.

my hands are dark purple today;
they never are
on normal days.

normally i would like to be lighter,
ignite wheat, or your other fields

do boys grow taller
where you're from, stilts and flat-tops,

the question doesn't know what i meant,
but all i want is to be
thin and a whisp

short

rememebered my rabbit face
or excuses to make up jumps
calming bridge sway

when i am alone in elevators
i shake them violently
waiting for the cables

my reflection makes me laugh
queitly
like i am not actually there.

kryzewski

don't know the last i wore
overalls
both straps hung loose
during a kris kross phase, i think

used to try and sneak out the apt.
w/ my clothes on backwards

that was before hurricane Andrew

moved to Gering near the Scottsbluff border
w/ my dad and brother

then the huricane finally came

i was friends with a Broncos fan
named Joey Keener
we played at his parents ranch
climbing hay stacks and throwing things at goats.

gone right for the kisser

untitled

you know i cannot light my cigarette
while i am walking, laugh.

the wind from your upper lip;
small appalachian hills

feeling my arms hang loose
and flap around aimlessly.

slipping on the ice
where my warm body sticks to--

avocado

hold you in my hand,
aligator pear.

pull my mouth over cinnamon stick,
caphor or bay laurel;

leopard speckle or do i call it
sun rain,

whisper to my fingers,
let them know the softest parts,

tell you, i will write this story for you.

tell me, you will be there.

gently separate the fruit from skin
with a spoon, working around.

sugar

so the awake in me is from cane fields
or sand hill birds
as in flying back to nebraska

do you dance on my bed
even in the winter, or more then.
against my chest w/
long pink legs

the lips you bite
sewn to the nibble, a bit
for you to wear
when confronting the Hells Angels

telling me stories of them,
w/ their hammers.

follow

my winter beard flutters toward
your cunning snow steps

diagonal zig and retrace
or does the heat
wonder where all the cold goes

the wood begins to die,
ash is not what i am filled with

i am a child

stop your sad look
you look at me as if i forgot something

as if i was meant to zag in the snow
to get lost

krzyzewski

that was a stolen sweater;
arms forever

where going west only means
wyoming and more wyoming

vampire christ, hail
marching roman like, around, around--

the death of you
is not forgotten, yet. my mind.

totem truck stop
blown the youth of your

face.

bone-chew

does your god know i
don't exist

the dollars of your can
feed it

who doesn't collect
shark teeth on the beaches of florida

the flattest place
on earth

even the alligator in the canal wouldnt
eat
my mother.

winged it

did you abandon me here,
do you cum in your pants

on the train.

forget every second of,

in the distance between here, and
another here

the voice of my hand
slapping against the hood of my car
pouring coke all over the battery cables

does this picture make you giggle
while you are faster than i am.

fly colors

the saying of flea in your ear
or as all hands, all hands!

in between the fingers he smells
of deli meats,

will you call him, thunder voice
and all, your worth in words

every last word by thunder,
she speaks like a boat

all riddles and sea charts
that lead you to more of this.

Cutlass!

and he slowly slides back
down the hill
more boyish than a baby may--

try to remember lines from [i]treasure island[/i]
to make sense
of your father as a pirate

think
snow doesn't always stick
when the ground is warm

stop thinking for a moment
say to him
yes, yes, ma'am i, yes

but then there is the meeting
at one point
your age or his, the matter

you say to him
things like
this is who i am today

put down your Cutlass!
your leg is missing
stop your dream.

cripple

the sky can be muck,
or think about the girl stuck in muck
near some Omaha lake.

my beard floats above,
strange as pears scatter on the ground
yellow and halved.

axe

a pile of dirt inside of me,
with my hands, nails.

when the moon is full and the river rises;
again, nothing has happened.

she said the dirt is actually on me,
or she has some,

i can cut you down tree;
i can end you this way.

gold's

three men in suits under a deli sign
talk business talk; notice

rich men go bald the same way poor men go bald
along the front ridge & crown

because i am mad
i will separate the river thames from
your shoulder pass

muffling the voice of adults,
the garbled rumble of whales

the male ones hunt in packs
for love

snore under water as floating device,
wake your baby sleep

listen to what the bus stop people say
with their coats on in preparation of winter
or all things coming.

for kitten

promise to call
warn you

when i walk around the apt.
naked

my socks on silent
the cold kitchen floor makes me quiver

i will taste the deepest thick of
you

because i am mad

visiting

scumming for a like soul
can i breathe your ocean air, nebraska
cold is colder than your nebraska.

your copper hair blondes me, gum
your plumb neck. plump my lips from the cement--
i can bite you, modern world, with my fakest face.

the slope of your back with the back hair
goads my hand to nick-it,
can you reach for me.
take away my cape.

fragile in the sense that a man is,
or why i get nerves in my belly when i see you,
a beauty.

call me for a second; call me while i am sleeping.

call me a word like darling
so my fur jumps
& the coats that warm my shaved shoulders
hide great plains from the belly i said.

more, there is an ocean under here,
you can listen
for the train coming. breathe
the air for me,
the jewel of cattle beds.

mr. october

for the earth of it
dirt cleat, teeth is what you got
& swing like a slugger
secret club, do the tattoos you got
say something.

cry because it died, the person
love that goes on a face
munchin' on xanax bars 'til your heart stops

swing batta' batta'
ask the same question
does a team full of professional men
making mad bank
really shock the world with success

it is the death of it
that leaves.

water displacement: 40th attempt

weathered cowboys live in a place similar to hell
guarded by the mother of god,
then asked 'did you see a titty'
& you wonder if you actually did.

your basketball coach drowned in nebraska
which has a great deal of ground water.

we can wait for hours, wondering when we will see
a t-rex. somewhere near york. but that might be wrong.

in my head i said, i said i complain about things
so that people feel sorry for my life not turning out
like my dreams.

like my dreams, i see things.

the drive across nebraska;
hemingways grave, ketchum; a titty.

i saw none of them.

then we decide to go on a rampage with axes
through the lower step of boise,
we complain about the sex in our sleeping space,
smoke our brains numb.

you talk to cats when you are alone.
the desert reminds you of water,
the titty you saw.

putting your life together;
things that fit inside
of you
become interesting

nest

wild horses draw the head off
you, razor-legs show me
skin of your bite bones
or where the fir trees grow
down to the night-time-water-body, so
i can be a romantic man
talk generic about the places of you:

the off-path covered wagon,
dirt boat
my beard dangling w/ twigs
& prairie flower.
arranged to remind you

krzyzewski

under the plain swell
can you feel all the earthquakes

the man i know from Falls city
saves you sometimes
or so he says
then rumbling, loud like a motorboat

until the forest over here
sang it out for parachuters
when the garlic mustard killed your garden

path cleared of poisonous spiders
the indian graveyard seems safe now

but you realize there isn't an end to this
the spiders are back every summer,
the father still has to have it's kids

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 our hide
naked in a boat

pioneers

counting bruises oh, are we
apples
sail upon trampled fields
of water wheat
you grow gold w/ your soiled hands
she
drinks & i
drink redberry-wine cold
behind trails of bison bur & indian grass,
smelling in barberry or
may-apple maybe, we
wait for it
to get dark for
our skin to hide

poem
1.

do
i go at it all wrong; on

deck
for the swinging game

more clobber
out of my bones arm--

cast
the throwing of small

boulders or
am i
poet

2.

poet
am i

falling to pieces in my
pieces falling

zone. so girl
turns to stone

inside of my baby
my baby groans

can i
find a small boy named i
& home



sand.gravel.limestone

I.

a part of me is not apart of me,
voice to lung or wrong tube
a singer & dance-a-thon
queen Anne’s lace or

do you know all the wild flowers in Iowa
the way i know all
the wild flowers in Iowa after i see them.

my cell phone does not work well
in the centers of cities
in the centers of cities
you can buy cell phones for cheap
at cheap cell phone stores

somehow i walked back into
wicker park w/o you
talking w/ my cell phone

& texted: everything you say to me
makes me smiley.

II.

i am jealous of the desert
w/ small you

see
there are no stars
over Chicago

take places apart
to make
small distances you can hide behind
a cactus
leaves no part of me

no matter how much the temperature changes
at night

when bats fly over a desert
to kiss nectar
& move on

to another desert.

III.

measure the unreal
by those who are not real
emptying eye parts or i can
pretend not to,
galaxies forming in the pit of my pitness
& other dark floating bodies
where you can't see

or to make more sense
see,
there is this machine
always these machines
that can carry
a) voice
or the physical parts together in my
thought

IV.

crumble the mountain

is it easier to hear dynamite

does the bridge swing

can i ask small favors

put each arm around my

detachable neck

i feel

going somewhere

fresh fruit

gobble going gets tough
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 center--

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

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

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

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 & i won’t tell you at all

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

to Chicago

a whim & the fog
rolls, i can say what the fog is. where smart cats keep breeding
w/o consequence, & then the kissing words--

knew the sun would return even when there is no sun for miles
or if it took months
so on & a great distance that i can push back
behind your ear.

or do i dare that rain to/to touch us
with house taps--
scare the dog, drops

a letter
written with small bumps only

you will read to me words like hung, & hair lip, push me
back against the wall & i
watch your mouth

then know my hand is now your hand,
lost in the land of your hand parts. connect to other places
hidden by limited vision, & there
people are

& then a reality filled w/ real things such as
people eat, or
can i see pictures of you before they changed it.
walking on
hand pads for the feet to rest, i could walk like this for days

w/ you telling me, don't be so silly
my boy hands. hold--

maybe more of a man w/ man hands than i want to be
measured by the silent minutes
between the airconditioning unit click ons and offs

but you don't look where you're going
& pass the nature walk, say blind spot
Iowa rest stops
greener as temporary, as green can be for the garden or
just a damn lucky guy going for the turn-around
& walk back towards the greenless things
that we can talk about
when we talk about

or do i know what i'm doing, with it
said
‘i know why fog is here.’
now, you're softest when the rain hasn't stopped
& a small line can be curved into something
like the dirt of me, mud spittle
my mouth runs over your
collar bone
still.

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

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

five

no whiskers for the thought of it stopping on a
dime

the feathers of this pillow are much more put together
compared to another pillow i will not name

when i am in Iowa
i feel like i am from the city.

it is not as if i do not like how the blood of your meat tastes
i am just forgetful

in a way
i could tell you why your mother and father never sing in the car.

mariposa

laying in the bath
three inches of water
maybe less
& more, cooling
quicker than i can clean
say:
these are teeth,
beautiful white jaws
around me in porcelain, they
beg me to slip
every time

untitled

making it alone,
as in a living
a singular tree grows next to
then another

as far as allowed, up
does the heart stop
wincing
see faces in the knot-bark

find a way
to shimmy the trunk
notice through the leaves
out, out,
my fingers fatter than the branch

comfort food


when i was naked
you smiled

w/ hands
for claire

on the line to being cute
because my hand is careless in your hand

picking loose hairs off, picking
the pic-nic-king spot

on a roof,
ask if i have forgotten something

to fly
i think

the largest meth bust in american history

maybe steal some old beers from the garage
of your junior high school counselor
go hide somewhere

maybe throw a bowling ball out the window
of a moving car
watch it hit the curb and fly into the air

drink out by the river
burry your liquor in the sand bar
for another day,

maybe see the truck
that held the largest meth bust
in american history

more story. (EDITED)

tom had been staying at his parents house the past two weeks. it was the house he grew up in for the most part. the house was empty now except for the things left in the storage room upstairs that tom had converted into a guest room. there was an old bed in there, a bicycle, golf clubs, other things.
someone he knew once had called him the other day leaving a message that she was coming to see him. she flew in from kansas city after spending a few days with her parents. tom thought that was funny for some reason. even though she had let him know she was coming tom was still a little surprised she showed up at the door. it was tuesday.
when the doorbell rang, tom sat there not moving. he was in the living room sitting on a folding chair he had put there. there was charred wood in the fire place with ashes scattered on the floor nearby. it had been two weeks.
the doorbell rang again.
tom got up and brushed some crumbs off his pants. he didn't remember eating anything that day. walking to the door he could see her peeking through the small window. she saw him.
the smile was something he had always remembered. he wrote about it, though none of those poems were well received by his editor.
he opened the door, attempting to hide what it was he felt.
she was still smiling, her face and neck blush.
'hello thomas,' she said.
'hello,' he said.
he stepped to the side to let her in, but she approached him to give him a hug. she leaned up and kissed his beard.
'it's nice to see you' she said, quietly.
'it's nice to see you too.'
'really?' she looked at him.
he looked to her side and saw she was carrying a grocery bag.
'what do you got there?'
'supplies,' she smiled again.
'let's go up stairs,' he turned.
'should i take off my boots down here?'
he shook his head and started up the stairs.
'we'll need glasses and ice,' she said.
'i have those up here,' he was halfway up the stairs now.
she didn't know what to say. she couldn't tell what he was thinking, or how he was feeling. she wanted to say something.
he didn't know why she was here, but he was glad in some way.
she came up to him, standing in the hallway waiting for her.
'what are you doing?'
'in here,' he opened a door that was painted over to blend with the wall. it opened to the storage room with the guest bed. he took the bag of supplies from her and started placing them on a card table he found the other day; two oranges; bitters; a bottle of simple syrup; a bottle of makers.
'old fashioned's,' he said.
'still drink them?'
'not since i last saw you' he started mixing a drink.
she didn't know what to say. he wasn’t looking at her.
he pulled out an ice tray from a mini fridge under the table.
'nice dorm room you have,' she said, looking around at all the collected junk, old things.
'yeah,' he poured one cup into the other to mix it. he looked around at the room but didn’t say anything else.
'the weather's really nice here,' she was looking at him again.
'is it?'
'it was dreadful in kansas city. it rained the first three days. stayed cooped up in the house with my parents. it was nice at first, but then i just couldn't wait to go. i couldn't wait to see you," she looked to him for recognition.
'well i'm glad you made it safe,' he handed her a drink. he smiled the way it doesn't look like he was smiling, his lips straightened out.
'me too,' she took the glass from him and took a sip.
'strong,' she made a face that wrinkled the bridge of her nose.
'you still drink it that way?' he was mixing his drink with his finger.
'not since i last saw you.'
he smiled.

the smile was something he had always remembered. he had written about it, though none of those poems were well received by his editor.

working on a story pt. 1

tom had been staying at his parents house the past two weeks. it was the house he grew up in for the most part. the house was empty now except for the things left in the storage room upstairs that tom had converted into a guest room. there was an old bed in there, a bicycle, golf clubs, other things. someone he knew once had called him the other day leaving a message that she was coming to see him.
she flew in from kansas city after spending a few days with her parents. tom thought that was funny for some reason. even though she had let him know she was coming tom was still a little surprised she showed up at the door. it was tuesday.
when the doorbell rang, tom sat there not moving. he was in the livingroom sitting on a folding chair he had put there. there was charred wood in the fire place with ashes scattered on the floor nearby. it had been two weeks.
the doorbell rang again.
tom got up and brushed some crumbs off his pants. he didn't remember eating anything that day. walking to the door he could see her peeking through the small window. she saw him.

nest

wild horses draw the head off
you, razor legs show me
the skin of your bite bones
or where the fir trees grow
down to the night-time water body
so i can be a romantic man
talk generic about the places of you
your body
the off-path covered wagon
dirt boat
my beard dangling w/ twigs
& prairie flower
arranged to remind you

krzyzewski

under the plain swell
can you feel all the earthquakes

the man i know from falls city
saves you sometimes
or so he says

then the rumbling, loud like a boat
but the forest over here
sang it out,
when the garlic mustard killed your garden

with the path cleared of poisonous spiders
the indian graveyard seems safe

but you realize there isn't an end to this
the father still has to have it's kids
& the spiders still come back next summer.

interview

don't work hard enough
move to a new 'world'
excuse
bet on the underdog
& complain when the upperdog
wins
can i get a job w/ gold teeth or
if i wear a t-shirt
w/ all the presidents who had beards
on the front
so what if i hide my face from you
level 2 proficient w/ microsoft office
yes,
will you hold it againt me:
violations after violations
dig out all the bones
& make yourself a bone yard
how many you's does it take to--
stop me if you heard this one before
high school football coach as reference
though i do not know his current phone number
how do you
sleep at night
in your bed made of shatter proof sheets.

canoe #2

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

pioneers

counting bruises
oh, are we
apples
sail upon trampled fields
of water wheat
you grow gold w/ your soiled hands
she
drinks & i
drink
redberry wine cold behind trails
of bison bur & indian grass
smelling in barberry or
may-apple maybe we
wait
for it to get dark for
our skin to hide

spicer
that marvelous finger
he gave it
after being asked to take back
comments made on ted williams' contribution
to the bosox
i was there he said
i was there when he gave it
but it wasn't worth
a goddamn thing
if you want to win the pennant
and my poetry
does

midwest-voodoo-physics
never ending
sky
not so much the bison
both can be killed to borderline extinction
i
drive faster the further rows grow
between potter/dix
in back country pan-handles where
rain is only a whitewashed
wall never seeming
to fill up dry bed
who can sleep

there is no wind break
& the howling is
mistaken for hungry coyotes
nipping at your feet all
because there are no more
bison to kill

poem
1.

do
i go at it all wrong; on

deck
for the swinging game

more clobber
out of my bones arm--

cast
the throwing of small

boulders or
am i
poet

2.

poet
am i

falling to pieces in my
pieces falling

zone. so girl
turns to stone

inside of my baby
my baby groans

can i
find a small boy named i
& home

light & shadows

a partially blind man
ran into me
on my smoke break at work
carrying a camcorder
he said:
i am taking a video of the city
for friends & family to see
in my left eye
i can see light & shadows
that's how i do it

iowa
for heaven

stretch across a belly flat
or
could i say it in a much more boring way
drive slow
so you do not miss
the largest truck stop in the world
with enough parking space
for the entire state
to park
their semis

heaven
for iowa

a small box the size of iowa
but lets not mix the twain
w/ baseball

there is no gay marriage in heaven
because
there is no heaven
it is called iowa

just blocks
for jon

& so the morning remarks
hello

do i still smoke cigarettes
am i still me, snake

sunshine on the plains is forever

said cedar was a good smellin' wood
the best
other asks
what are those

i do not like detroit
for playoffs

so i cried after
reggie millers last game

does anyone really
laugh like that cackle you got
&
do you know how good
john starks
actually was

file the parts you know
about kidhood
@ madison square garden
or any place you saw on a television set

do we know that these are people
that i am writing a poem
about real people

sand.gravel.limestone

II.

i am jealous of the desert
w/ small you

see
there are no stars
over chicago

take places apart
to make
small distances you can hide behind
a cactus
leaves

no matter how much the temperature changes
at night

when bats fly over a desert
to kiss nectar
& move on

to another desert.

sand.gravel.limestone
IV.

crumble the mountain

is it easier to hear dynamite

does the bridge swing

can i ask small favors

put each arm around my

detachable neck

i feel

a shiver through

sand.gravel.limestone
III.

measure the unreal
by those who are not real
emptying eye parts or
i can
pretend not to feel
galaxies forming in the pit of my pitness
& other dark floating
where you can't see
me
does that make sense
see,
there is this machine
there are always these machines
that can carry
voice
or the physical parts
together in my
thought

sand.gravel.limestone

I.

a part of me is not appart of me
voice to lung or wrong tube
a singer & dance

queen annes lace or
do you know all the wild flowers in iowa
the way i know all
the wild flowers in iowa after i see them.

my cell phone does not work well
in the centers of cities
in the centers of cities
you can buy cell phones for cheap

somehow i walked back into
wicker park w/o you

& texted: everything you say to me
makes me smiley.

hello mountain

to trace you
warmer part of the chest skin
feels
my remembering where i brush
my beard
the slopes of your profile
our identical hands

sweater poem

i bought this sweater
because i
fell in love with you
it cost me 70$
& does not even keep me warm
unless i wear it
in the summer.

kansas city poem
for claire

you light up the plains you
scan the great plains--

saw good ol' boy become
& then the kissing word

moves to the softer animals from sea
priced by the moist

you can gum these soft sea monsters
for dollars & the cost or

i could save
all my money
from the open furnace

untitled
for title

in silence the silence finds
it's noise
or my voice is made by teeth
& the flesh i bite
calling the sound gnashing &
raspberry spit/split
the lickity of traveling so far
when my throat can vibrate
i say "simple"
in that way
how i feel
how the crater in my torso
actually feels
vibrating into message of--
that i can't translate
in any real word
so i pretend your ears, painfully
soft
grating into the build of my skeleton
yes
the whole thing
can hear

poem
for face

dont know her or knew her for
just half a day
the way the unknown curls around
a straight part of head hair
then the bending
where you did not know could bend
say money does this
or the kissing words that hold
around the nothing known
until you realize what it is
keeping you up late at night
trying to bring her closer
w/ words only
feel her face form in language
say this is chin
& put your thumb over it
to see again.

part of a poem

see the language of you, danc--
ing word or
fuzzy mumble i
can hear the approach
under arch
born the mississippi quarter
my kansas side of kansas city
moves

poem

the words are hard
sometimes.

nothing is
coming to mind.

i would like to write a poem
today, or

tomorrow,
even yesterday would have been nice

but
i
suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

a famous statue

hide the light from your
light eyes

shade sun on a guest bed i
remove your legs to walk w/

or run along your handsome prancers.
forget direction

on your no-moss thigh,
mars sleeps on us at the same

time the gaps of when i
think your face & still--
you are.

tonights the night
for z.s.

look at us fuddy duddies
talkin bout some love stuff

grow a beard why dont ya
just run off

into the desert-- she say
that furs for hangin on

weaving our faces into
a woman or

parking your car on my lawn
in the morning
we are.

you &
for guest room

telling me don't be so silly
w/ my boy hands. hold--

maybe more of a man w/ man hands
than i want to be

be yours in an instant measured
by the silent minutes

between when the airconditioning unit
clicks on

carry over water
for you

or do i know what i'm doing, with it
said

i know why fog is here.
you're

softest when the rain hasn't stopped
& a small line

can be curved into something
easily held

so my mouth runs over your
collar bone
still.

carry over water
for the other side

but you don't look where you're going
& pass

greener is only temporary, as green can be
for the garden or

just a damn lucky--
going to just turn around

& walk back towards the greenless
things

that we can talk about
when we talk
about

carry over water
for water

& then there is a reality
filled w/ real things

people eat, or
can i see pictures of you

before they changed it.
walking on

hand pads for the feet to rest,
i could walk like this for days

next
to
you.

stand-by
for claire

a whim & the fog
rolls, i can say what the fog is. where

smart cats keep breeding
w/o consequence, then love--

knew the sun
would return even when there is no sun

or if it took months becoming more months
so on &

a great distance
that i can push back
behind your ear.

for eyes

dare the rain to
to touch us

with house taps--
scare the dog.

a letter
written with small bumps only

you will read to me words like
hung, & hair lip, push me

back against the wall & i
watch your mouth
move

twenty six
for twenty eight

reached some peak
or at least

thought i touched it.
know my hand is now

your hand,
lost in the land of your

hand parts. connect
to other places

hidden by my limited vision--
& there
people are

west
for west

tell me again--
you are the reason i

move-- freaky fast
when it can be to easy to stay here:

comfort.
gotta get outta this

zone, feel the goddamn dry heat
flush against skin

stretched over the bones
of what lived
here.

for keeps

muddy river, here's that sad face you got.
long baby, reach in to your mouth

with a full arm of sweet things--
im sorry you.

a kiss is. pull away from your wings for
just a fly

know the seasons come when you won't
want this much

when a time like this walks in
to your life
& takes you home.

2010

space you can fill up
with your

lovely noise,
we can lap the humidity

here in nebraska, a gift,
the whole state

from each growth of feed
meant to keep

the fat cows here,
so everyone can eat them,
even other fat cows.

thousands of years

a good look stung
what ever me could be found

pick up the pitter--
or one thing a world has,

patience.
her horns of joshua

enter my jericho-bones,
say

harlot boy
come down to the creek
& see.

no title
for greg

the cancer i write
grows up like a poem

alive it seems, or
everything has happened

he screams at the frozen
pond, head crossed

by several other pond people
who ballance

their child feet
on
water.

for walker

we walk down the street
to become better goers,

im sure you know.
a tuft of fur

glows over
where i want your back--

my hands wrapped;
position

the soft parts where
my teeth
will taste.

on the way

still there's the wander--
stretch your neck

to neck
where she stretches to find

some understandable trait
of connect--

friction in move;
a great distance by any means.

find the spot
where
she knows what you are saying.

for creator

put together new animals
from scratch/no scratchy

is the beard too much
for nature, i mother i

guess i'd better
surprise you w/ bright colored furs

on all the animals i make;
they will be

tiny as this poem
w/ strange smiles all over
their bodies.

be like, etc.

want the ghost of it, is muffle
speak through me spectre

gone from the sh-shaking
my hand did not, seem

touch the face of her, face her
from all angles

passing through
is quick & painless

except for the young ones
who still
live here.

nude poem

that is when you lie
to yourself

about what you forgot to do
before all these people you know

were naked
even in the absence of liquor

even in the absence of god
as if it ever were

that easy to be naked
in front of anyone
when you really loved them.

for friends

& the whisky is there
for your friends

because your friends are there
to kiss you

when the ones who ought, are not.
when the raspberry burn

on your face
feels like a fight you don't remember

but you remember everything
about the kiss
or the one you ought.

saint

boy i, a
catch

me before i, too-
where the eyebrow might not, or

you touch it
when nobody is looking

which is a task
but then

i lean in & don't kiss you
which is
a much harder task.

waiting for mcdonalds to open.


lonely is a loud
way

but the curious is just opening



got the word down somewhere or
got it

rather not know
say no it's not known

invent the rumble bars on the interstate shoulder
on your shoulder it seems



different
.