In the library, I sit reading.
No worry about who sits beside me. 
I'm warm, my coffee is here.

I wear a tee shirt. No handcuffs.

I smile at a funny line. 
Maybe I laugh quietly.
No one is coming for me today. 


From the mountain
we saw other mountains.

They were good, but dozed
and were lazy, some reaching 
not at all.

Still, sucking our attention
from sky, blocking sun, making us
be small.


Bag was wet,
left the bottle open.
Trying to not make

She looked at me,
across the table.

Like the whole day
was over.

good models

Something about going.
They seem always
O.K. with that. Bound to

Filled with empty chase.

And they've liked me, too,
I think.
Some anarchy about my
eyelashes. Bad teeth.

Words that hide and show,
like gowns and skin.

stupid wisdom

Dao is like dumb.
But it's honest


Dad was right.
Everyone is right, you know?
Eventually. It all comes. Whatever.

     Every heinous thing.
     Every grace

Sometimes so quick!

Some in great seamless droning


After I'm dead,
I don't care what they do
with my penis.

Cut it off. Teach it to sing.
Love it in secret.
Elect it President, or donate it
to Goodwill.

Throw it away. I don't care about my


I've been all this.

And these are my only eyes. Not
other eyes.

Weaving. That spiral. It's
about finding way carefully.
Rifling in. Marking exactly.

Crossing the street to the money,
or to the no money.

Long game slow.

zoo dogs

For me,

a poem is a place. A snap.
Something I can walk around in
for a bit. Maybe a minute. A few days.

Texture. Real. Something on the table
that doesn't fit.


For you to resist.

doubt about

In math class,
I never wanted to show my work.

I wasn't cheating.
Just what I liked about math,

was clean.


There's so much past.
So little now.

In a roomful, I'll pick the one
with the most interesting nose.
A nose I could fuck.

And it's the same with nostalgia,
idiots. Now is so spare.

The weird nose.


Jeff lent us this for keeping warm,
but I've really enjoyed dangling my testicles above it.
Burning myself for fun.

Boring pain. Pain that smiles.
Pricks with Gusto. Cunts with Courage.
Newness is hot hot shit.

Please just burn my balls.


Lots of these drops are coalescing now.
Into a speed that probably trips more than
it spins.

A fish scale would be the way.
Sashimi on the train. Writing. Going.

Maybe Chicago. San Diego. Brooklyn. Atlanta.

no interest

Talking with you
I could see things get tight.

Stamina for that canvas is probably nil.
A lot of writing,
some spokes that don't meet,
but zig-zag in and out
   boring rhythm.     like how they weave


Drunk on Moscato, she licked my asshole.
It was okay.


Somethin lost from its space.

A pebble. Small-fit. Smooth.

Everything seems easy.
The way alit. The spurs away.

By then, the rattle.
A sink. The drooping.

That space is too large for that pebble.

fish noun 3

Milk gave her an ache.
She never would complain, though,
and it eventually fucking killed her.

Which was pretty unbelievable.

farmer at mum

she grips the wheel tightly. scared.
her window is open.
he's coming at the car
running. yelling. crazy.

"dumb fuckin bitch!
headlights in my eyes! i'm tryna back up!
FUCK is wrong with you!
you see me tryna back into the barn!
dumb fuckin bitch!"

i see him bursting red.
his neck so thick and veiny.

i wring my tiny hands.
how dare him talk to her
at all.

max altitude

i know a kid who flies a space ship.
he's seventeen. his legs don't work.

he'd been in bed for years.
got out one day.
built a space ship.

now he fucking flies it.


no wake

waves in march.
storms in april.
may comes sun.
shine for me.

the last like the first.
no words. a shuffle,
some procedure,
& i'm out the door.

quiet in. quiet out.
the riptide.


I can feel your tired eyes
closing hard and soft
as the chaos swirls the skies
around us.

Don't break down, love.
The end is just beyond
the bend, and these skies

They're gonna eat us


you are bigger
than you'll ever be.
and that's it.


Half-man, half-devil.
Tell them you will.
Then show up,
and WILL.

Fight those fucking monsters.
Feast. Then dessert them.



did you ever think about the way that
petunia pumps peel pounds
like perfect penance?

nails done.
screaming neon trees in a
midday-night traffic.

people who don't know anything about
fighting for anything but pleasure privy.

that's us.


caught us
in the dark
eyes glued. face glows blue.
now every boy who ever felt like a wuss
learning to shoot
and kick. shout and fuck.
join up. suit up. smoke up.
die quicker. die slower.

lost little men.

whilst molten

the secrets are broken
all around them like flotsom after a squall
and instead of despairing,

they build a new secret together.


 not this.
i am not this thing you say.
your cerebral nonsense.
it passes through me.

big words for
high minded boys
with no sense of earth.

small worries about
like big worries about
chocolate dessert.

let it go, poet.
muck up your hands a bit, yanno?
die like the rest of us.

 not me.


the streets are crawling.
i'm approaching the yellow curb, the walk light
seems about to signal,
"white stick figure."

i'm in stride (did i mention?)
with another ped. and he hops
from the curb and into a momentary
gap in traffic.

i pop and lock my knees,
suddenly aware of a potential
breach in auto-pilot protocol.

more alert now,
i realize that the
"orange hand du moment"
remains steadfast.
my pedestrian friend,
even more robot than i,
makes it unscathed.

all the more capable, i am still
not a risk taker.


so tightly, tightly spun.
wound. round.
the breaking point is certainly,
most indubitably
in sight.

the ticking. talking.

we act as if we're
smoothing over the
of a wildly unpredictable storm.

our guilt
has grown


it's gears! it's wheels!
a mess of classy, whored up
tuxedos jaunt in & glaze the eyes
of every memory-lost wanker in the room.

they drool singularly, and from the
collective cesspool slurks a feeble, stinking
mass of matted hair with 2 arms, 2 legs,
and 1 barbarically misshapen head-like welt.

there isn't much more to it than that, folks.


i know nothing about it.

vibrato. maple syrup baritone.
ancient. organic,
glowing. luma.
bristlecone cinder.
a pyre. the love of babylon.

or silver.


last week

the roof caved in.

and jack broke his leg
lighting the lamp, just
before bed.

so, we
bashed him again
and again
with a kettle.
mom soaked up
blood with her bathrobe.

because no money.

hold on

When I enter, she closes the gilded cover
of my grandfather's bible.
Gone six years.
She will be gone in three days.

I ask her, who published that book?
Smiling, she says, god.
I say, no, which printing press?
She opens the cover,
her eyes feathering the first few pages.
God, she says again.

I say,
no, grandma, not god.

metal for mao

I once spent a weekend
filing smooth
the surface of my father's anvil.

Dust, and metal, and the Sun;
all burned my skin.

My hands bled onto the steel.

I felt the shadow of every cloud.
Honeybees flapped enormous wings.
And small breezes felt as great winds.

I spend my hours there, now.

In that space.

Where my father loves me.

our summer in court

on the day of the hearing,
father wore a brown suit
and patent leather shoes
with brass buckles that hid
beneath the bunched fabric
of his too-lengthy polyester


the sun made him sweat
on the ride to the courthouse.
he smoked cigarettes,
and we listened to him
whisper his words
over and over.

that night we made popcorn
and watched Blade Runner.

i cried to myself in a towel.

before you

hardly a reason to quit now.
everything is guilt and sweat and filth on floors bronzed thick and bricks mossed tired and melting.
birds pick clean bones. eating guts. eating stones.
barely brandished.
hardly revealed. heather and grain. months left thin and empty.
thorn and wire.
she left and the horizon felt closer. but maybe softer.

year of time

i check the weather up there.
crystal falls. the ravine. ice four inches
thick in the parking lot.
fingers freezing brittle like gingersnaps.
almost had to walk back.

life's about
the missing.

can't believe i complained.


after awhile

i thought about love.
but more-so about
los angeles,
where my dreams ---
burnt and razed
--- might finally

swallow me.


blind 2

returning from the mountains,
i remember the grid beneath the city.
the way everything is connected,
but nothing is my own.

walking home.
[trying to t o u c h everything.]
my fingers pulling atoms
from railings. and bread.
trying to make myself a part of this place.

i remember the eagle on highrock.
his beak buried in guts. no sense of aesthetic,
i watched him. he watched me. we saw.

mtn family

seven years ago:
our house on high rock,
and the mist of each morning,
seeping through the double panes;
fingering my bare feet.
i lie asleep on the floor.

when they built the new
grocery store in Marshall.
there was a huge turnout
for the grand opening festivities.
we went in our oily coats
smelling like father's smoke,
eating dry cornbread,
and feeling poor.

and me,
spending an icy winter afternoon
beneath our family's jeep.
an acetylene torch melts bolts
and ice the same.
the dripping drops
stopped my hair from singeing.

but too little for warmth.

sphere 2

mold lines the walls. i can smell it.
crawling. lifting. bringing me down.
something missing here.
nails in shoes. metal shavings.
more than iron in my blood.
there is something here.

sinking and rising. floating stones.
immersed in smoke and flash.
something hidden. not lost. unseen.

breaking hard on beaches. filtered through
sand and broken shells.

forgetting the face of weather.
forgetting what i was looking for.


in the city now:
static of radio news.
s&p down fourteen points.
suicide bombers.
politicians.celebrity overdoses.

and then, local: a large cat spotted east of the city.
everyone worries except for me. mountain child.

my hunger is elsewhere. in touch.
pedestrians weave through snow. traffic. 
nameless streets. we pass like water.
no touching.
the newscaster tells me that i needn't worry
about the large cat. probably a lynx.
or a large tabby.


Mrs. Conner looks around the classroom trying to catch a vacant face. Everyone knows this and so they try to seem busy. Mrs. Conner knows that they know this, as well, and so she lets out a deep sigh. Students are less concerned with state testing this year than they were last year. Sammy, a rather dull child, has missed four days of school since September. He also did not attend the three week Intensive Summer Study Session in August. His blatant disregard for the welfare of the school's state-wide standing is more than mildly disconcerting. Mrs. Conner decides that she will need to bring Sammy the notes herself. Maybe, she could sneak in a chat with his parents. But probably not. Sammy often comes to school smelling like sauerkraut, which is more than a slight indication that his parents are unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices for their children. Foods made from cabbage are invariably nutrition-less. Worse than celery. Any parent that feeds their children boiled celery, or cabbage rolls, is surely unaware of children's special nutritional needs. Mrs. Conner is aware of all children's needs and prides herself on this fucking fact.


the shades have been down for 8 months now.
winter refuses to leave us.
the floorboards whisper to each other,
asking when the chill might end
so they might stop shivering.

we pace our thin rugs,
heads filled with roaches
that bend light
behind our sad eyes.

rays of holy soma spill out,
but inside, it's still just some roaches.
we're still just empty buckets

left to fill with dirty rain.

fried brains

Raced down the street
with this giant roll of Juicy Fruit we'd all chewed up.
Rolled flat on wax paper.

Made strands. Coiled around a wad of newsprint.
Just some idea. But it looked real.

The things we make. They are just things.

loving mum

Her hands:
Spending money.
Washing dishes & folding laundry.
Spreading peanut butter on our sandwiches.
Dog-earing pages of our story books.
Her hands.

Straightening collars.
Choosing pears at the grocery.
Writing letters to Grandma.
Her hands.
Drowning my father's parakeet
while he was at work.



new monitor

first came the heat.
starving yellow light.
speed of confidence.


a rain made mud of the dust
and we all swam headfirst
into a pit of our own dead skin.

it's over.

king hipster

i'm awake [now] and i can't go back
because you're there. in my dream.

wearing same hair,
same perfume.
and we speak
of events only a few
days past.


but, as go dreams, it is all wrong.
we appear as well-spoken
eight year olds.
instead of over-lived twenty somethings.

you've been gone almost four months.
[in this empty/this dream] we speak of things
that you could never know.



bobble-headed kids are wading
through dungy heaps of
broken insectoid machine parts.
their fingers are smashed in
throbbing red-claw vises.
they are toys. or pliers.

no one is sure how anything

i remember what it all meant, though.
and, [haha] you know...
it's just what
you said it was.


if this were all i had to say...

it was autumn before. and it was just like this.

you know?