Month: July 2017

always has been

I stand above this town at dusk, green
brick to my back. birds race around in
of me; they circle together in patterned
ease, then join the rest on the
church’s roof just across the

I know that I am someone’s son, someone’s
brother, someone’s uncle but I sometimes
wish that I were none
of these. wish that I was completely
alone, and this thought takes a
blade to any goodness that
I still may possess.

I stand here, green brick to
my back, watching these birds
charm in pack with patterned
oneness. then they join the rest
the roof just across the
street because this
is how
it always has been.

sunday storm

I become aroused when a storm
approaches. when the scatter
of bright blue light is invaded
by a line of heavy smoke inching
its way to erase a perfect

deep rumble reaches even if it
is still several miles west over
cornfields. I grin. the hot humid
air now cool and expedited. it
ripples my dark blue t shirt, swirling
under, glancing my sticky

billions of joules striping at
soil- the crack now only
seconds after. I am flush. feel
satisfied. content. a storm
that cleanses man’s ego as it
ushers all of us deceitful
animals inside.

I light a cigarette and curl up
in the swirling dark green ashen

blank sheets

a dot in a beryl jar, I sip a
strong mash in a beveled
glass- here sways a

goddamn poet with
nothing to write about as past
musae sit taxidermied
mounted in a fit of prose several
years ago. now
in this aroused
stupor, I can only think about a
legs greeting the ceiling in a
pose. hound.

poetry dies in sexual prime cause
all I want is women, all I think
about are women and yet, I’m left
with blank sheets rigid in

not quite right

in the slowdown of daily, I
think of spanish moss draping
over oaks in the south. think
of cacti needled and laughing
at the sand, at all the things
that cannot grow. think of
kentucky bluegrass, exotic and
unwelcome. think of a ballet
class in brooklyn, long pointed
legs in attitude. think of an
artist in some early a.m
frustration- it’s not quite

sober poem

on balcony. four church steeples
forgive. two clock towers laugh. the
sun and moon begin to take turns. a
train bell dings from behind. railway
brake releases. hurried
men and women in suits make their
way across the parking lot. feet are
propped up on railing. family eats in
the courtyard of an irish pub
below. child knocks silverware to
the ground, the father scolds. cratered
begins its sweep, peeking with storied
brick and trees. take a deep breath
the exhale.

all quiet on the midwestern front

spit purple into the bathroom
sink. grin at the lonely and
tired man with purple
teeth who is in there as
well. you, wanting

a meteor to blaze through the
atmosphere. him, just wanting
you to be happy. to
grow old with success, with
lineage. shut the light

on him, head to kitchen with
a see through 750 and a cork
that has fallen on
hardwood, next to radiator. six
other bottles lay horizontal
on rack; everything is sleeping but
you. look over at empty blanket
bundled bed. look up at a
painting you made. head is

lowered and lids are
heavy. it’s quiet except
for that man in the
bathroom who already knows
what you are going to
do. hand moves toward another
bottle. uncork, toss down by
radiator. in teeth stain
pull, head to the

bathroom and shut the door
on the man, muffling his

third person

your mind is a kennel, barking
dogs circle. there is so
much to be said but it is
hard to get out, so you sit you
lift a paw you loop into a
position of sleep. your

mind is mumbai. crowded and
hot, as all the neurons weave
around in stimulus chaos. your

mind is a celestial transit. one
body moving in front of the other
till any bodies with consciousness
knock out a religion on stone your

mind is a supermarket. reaching
for whatever you want as if
billfold is endless. no list, no
round up to single trip spend as
you want all


the time.

the writing fool

woke up way too goddamn early
this morning. had way too many
bourbons last night. I make
some coffee but it tastes like
something a north dakota pipeline
is pumping up, dump it down the
drain. heat up a

frying pan, throw three tortillas
down, flip em when they bubble
up. crack a few eggs and plop them
in. forgot oil, so the eggs are
sticking. portion out the
eggs on a each tortilla. grab
some guacamole, spoon some
on each then a dousing of hot
sauce. sit in my tan leather
desk chair and eat like it is
be my last meal. think about

last night. had plans to tour
the bars down the street but as
I made it to the tracks, a union
pacific was crawling by. then
it just stopped. turned back and
went to the bar just across the
alley from my place. I’m already
a few neats in, feeling more kerouac
on buckley drunk then kerouac on
the road drunk. was not in

the best of shape and I’m pretty
sure I made a fool of myself when
I tried to slur flirt with two pretty
tattooed blondes that sat next to me. I
don’t think I can show my face in
there for at least a couple of

weeks. fool. washed my dish and
frying pan then grabbed my black
notebook to see what foolish
things I wrote during my liver’s
final stand- it was sloppy, illegible
and gibberish. what a waste. the

writing fool heads back to bed, the
only place where he can’t screw it
all up.