Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Bloom, rest there

Bloom, rest there,

simple and soft, sink down

with petals open for my neighbors to see;

the flower on the balcony

wearing no clothes but its stamen

staining the skin under my nose, brushing

its fair white hair, damning me to hell

each hole I bore through the swell

of those five fingers stretching, bending

in the stillness, in the breeze.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

My fathers, there are three of them;
they put on coats
every morning but Friday,
they are fools in slack pants, jeans.

They put on their charcoal coats
the color of campfire,
holy fools in slacks and jeans,
their hands withered, drowsy, tired.

They become charcoal
each year more dried,
flames lick hands so soft,
curling inward for the night.

My fathers are shriveled more
each year, more salt and pepper hair
on hands enflamed and withered old.
They dance inside their lair.

More salt on the potato, on the hair.
With nerves alight, on fire,
they dance inside their lair,
my fathers, walking a tight rope wire

in graying coats and jeans.

Elementary Desire

Her cheese, an electric orange,
sparked them jealous.

Cut into sharp squares
collided in a plastic stack

of product. Of kiddie snack that smacked
processed, churned out,

stared at,
thousands and millions of us

wanting, NEEDING a box like that

sugar juice and candy,
sticky ham and cheese.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

I've Been Talking with Dmitri and Job

"Glory to the Highest in the world,
Glory to the Highest in me!"

O thee, we keep me from saying these words
lying upward, the ceiling
staring down from its corners
at me, naked and white, ultra neon glowing


Me, not bent or mown down,
but crazy with height, loft,
dizzy till you knock me down
in the dirt. My face wants it,

to smell the smell of rain's father.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Celebrating My 201st Post

Clap your hands, all you
down with Dante who want order, want
a sensitized sentence;

bend your branches, trees
in the forest who cry for chaos,
fall for repentance

like it comes all clean
with lightning, with cloud bellies,
finishing my sentence.

Night Travels Revisited

Here travels the night

breathing a welcome on the ten-o-clock train

its throbbing lit windows, watching

homes with a chair for you,

offered up for you.

There must be a Hank Williams song

playing softly on the piano in that back room,

the tune remembered,

the words mostly gone,

as train tracks drum their clacking teeth,

the murmur of night,

nothing but dark, white noise.

You are drawn to lists:

moths to garish light,

middle-age men to pissant beer

hookers to their electric lipstick

deep in clutch purses,

like cats to cream

and by the time your similes run dry

so do your eyes run wet

with something deep at your burning core:

red hot ash,


a volcano.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Emblazon Me Please.

Blaze me on your jacket,

boy, the little finger tickles you send

up my spine and cerebellum,

they kill old antebellum skirts

in their eager largess. Enough

definitives, stress, unstressed

feet making time and sense

of the nonsense I make.

Why do I wear lace

when I long for rip free denim hardware,

rip-free and non tear

caked in clean brown mud?

See the curving belly roll

each jean fold

the pucker of sultry jean that calls

every hour or two

it asks if you made it home safe

if you need a ride

did you have that other shot of whiskey,

or did you need to stay the night.

Talk softly.

I’ll kiss you on the cheek and tuck you in

The sofa beds down for the night

having loved on people like you.

Here Travels the Night

Here travels the night

whispering some vague welcome to me

through the windows of lit village windows.

Of homes with a chair for me

offered up for me.

There must be an old country song

playing softly on the piano in the back of the room,

the tune remembered

the words mostly gone,

train tracks drumming their clacking teeth

and the whirr of the night

nothing but dark white noise.

I am drawn to lists

like moths to garish light,

middle aged men to cans of beer

hookers to their plastic pink lipstick

in the bowels of clutch purses,

like cats to cream

and by the time my similes run dry

so do my eyes run wet

with something deep at the burning core:

red hot ash,


a volcano.