There is a way to be curt with a field. The runnels of self-pity, the sludge of preponderance. I don’t use words aright, alway. I am dumb as a post. I mean dead as  a post.  A goat cast asunder a ship. The sounds come out wooden. This must be the sea left over. I went where the sea met the mud, the slag of the alluvial guts of some dragon-sing, the earth’s spit and image. So I am curt with the field, a-winter the shelved bark I gnaw like a scarab come home. And that is me protesting love. I mean into you a field of sound. Green as.


The spirit’s test if something
is worth its time is
“Can you hold it
in your mouth?”
like honey, a poem,
a song, a lover’s
release of love, mother’s
milk or other
forms of nourishment.
The rest is the unrest
of life, mere combativeness
or sport, un-home,
not rich enough
to be the uncanny
where we must live.
Our weird spirit
is an oral thing
bathed in spit.


Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves


Green with Wanting

Here is a child      wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once      She is
not sick

She is not fever-rich

She juts out into the world    so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature

She can’t buy all the poetry books

She has a different kind of money

She is a strider          Admire her

So she goes with all the trees     All hold their arms
high        open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods

She but      no longer a girl

She walks between them     All the insane openness
of the arms                         A cold bitter

A martini of cold
With an olive of colder

It is a madness of the trees

God, the earth is a mattress

and nothing more





Where are you asleep
And can I touch you there
The spiderweb you gave me so lightly
I can’t seem to sunder its threads
Its words, filaments of light

Oh, you are the darker wavelengths for sure

You will have guessed by now
My hatred of you was not hatred
The hatred I turned to disbelief
A doorknob with no door
A door with no house
That sort of logic

I knew you would only repeat as the comet
You are an inveterate repeater
Because you are desire and more
I leave a place for you at the table
The table is a dream, an alphabet
I leave a place for you also at the lake
The lake is only another table
A place for you to dangle feet

I save a place for you there

And in the cemetery next to me I hold your seat

Since I hope to shamelessly continue

I am still much interested in the crime of your hand



Honey Belly

You know what to do
with your belly
never call it paunch
that’s not sexy
belly is
as in lifting belly
just smear it
with some honey
call yourself a bear
let the sticky gold
shine there
golden glow
you’re the honey bear
in the kitchen
people will feel
keen desire for
rubberiness of you
want to put their
honey flashlight
honey paws there
and wonder if
maybe you are
hella sexy
and just lost in translation
by some idiots
who don’t know jack squat
about honey

The End of the Middle

August is aptly named, I think.
It is the month when the summer
sits like an aging emperor on its ass.
It rose up atop its feeder seasons,
ambitious spring, summer flush with green accomplishments.
But that is done. There’s only ripeness now.
There’s not yet that true blush of the mortal
that September brings, when all the colors change
in that radical sense. But close. It’s felt. There is a new
darkness in the leaves. A random few parts will fall
as if in prescient mockery. Everything green is as full as it is
going to get. The husbands of August sit on the beach
with their august wives. The kids have grown,
gone their own way. It’s a quiet, late vacation.
The husband sits in a striped beach chair
and stares at the ocean. He thinks, “No worries.
Next month I will just ruin everything.” Even doom
can start to seem a likely solution. Because
the young girls and September are in his already
cracking eyes.