too sleepy for thinking too tired
to sleep. i left my parents' house
along the slash of my father's
handwriting. the basket
of my mother's worry. i set off
to the world beholden
to my imminent disaster.

and only made it Here.

now cold in the hole of this
cliffsitting cabin.
the trailworn edge of the world.
being Here is like being anywhere:
too many feet and too little blanket.
more bullshit erected
at the side of the road.

simply put:
fuck fuck fuck
fuck fuck.
when morning

breaks i will step against
the sun. write my own
selfsame letters.
foot on stone my stone.
in the message i mail
to the present i'll tell them,
don't wait.
the future is certain.
all the songbirds
eloped.

Proverbs 8:1

 1 Does not wisdom call out?
       Does not understanding raise her voice?

 2 On the heights along the way,
       where the paths meet, she takes her stand;

 3 beside the gates leading into the city,
       at the entrances, she cries aloud:

 4 "To you, O men, I call out;
       I raise my voice to all mankind.

transition

Arrayed and dismayed. The lip of your metal cup. The edges of your memory. The smell of gasoline where 'Jasmine' would have been prettier. It could have all been prettier. Bent over the counter top while the unforgiving give of the vaseline. I am not saying I want it different. Would want it wearing heels. Sufficiently stilettoed through butterflies and bees. All ripped in the hitch. Then from beside the balustrade you find the smaller vital you. The you that might send you a message. With a half-perceptible pulsing it unfolds like the odor of grass. The comb at the throat. The small boat embarked upon the great waves. A mouse and a cat at the tiller. A raspy brace of sea salt. An azure dream of a deep and sighing jewel. When I snap my fingers you will awaken. When awakened inside your fingers you may snap. The last long call of a gull. That's it. You can open them. We've arrived.

tin prayer

oh lord
of fire and
lord of blight,
lord of the light
blue dressing.
lord of mysterious skies,
crying masses
of intestinal angst.
lord of vapid footed biology.
lord of mutter and worry.
lord of bitch-
tied 'bout the kneecaps.
lord born from the imprint,
lord copied from carbon.
lord still independent
of who voices. lord of
unbroken
breads. lord who by bison, by blue, by
wrecked and half-noble knuckles.
oh lord it is for you
that i bleed a bad tartan.
it is for you
i dance a slow jig.
lord whom to holier
nothings were nowhere
never whispered,
genuflectously intoned,
the breath of the great
patella oh magnanimous sweet
unfulsome oh bloody oh
lord.

Paranoia mix

celestial

the ridiculous arrangement of our bodies. books given on your birthday. how once in the backyard you dropped to your knees. took me there. a taffeta shift. spiderweb tights. that could have been us that rode to the stars. instead we never went anywhere. paved circuit from the bathroom to the bedroom. from the bathtub to the sink. we always want more of our powers. but someday we're done fighting evil. or good. love's fingers on the autoharp. the moon on the horizon. before the sadness of the stars. do i regret it? no. it's not a lie if you believe. what won me was the wisp. what held me i don't know.

the king of carrot flowers / once inside my head

black coffee

when only the fire glows
twin dots dotted from a host of ill centuries (.)
where space and wistful longing launch
themselves wheel idly around the same
round hole, whole star swung round

my hands and knees, 1 can
ajax 1 coarse green
scrubbie blow
me a kiss, red tile and wooden stairwell
50 pounds of onions too tough
to die. kid

what came for you later only came
cause it could smell you, that same
raw stink bits black trailing
tongues around your gums, your weakness, your initials
hot knifed to
the trunk of the tree.

it loved you
through rubberized fingers
crouched round the rubberized
handle,
held wetly half past
midnight.

once it was
you and the footsteps, you
were all just the whisper
of leaves, he liked
that. "Comfort,"
he said. "Don't
you see?" I
didn't. I don't.

you want i want

you want for maleness
while i just want
for peopleness. we're
neither. i want
for dogs' eyes,
third prize,
a fast mist at night
or the lonely light
laid down
from open windows.
thrown sleeping
to the street,
complete,
discursive and brainless,
highlit and neat.
(oh lover
hold thy tongue.)

--

you want for maleness
i want for peopleness

we're neither
yeah we're neither

i want for dogs' eyes
third prize

oh brother don't believe her
yeah don't believe her

a fast mist
at night
a lonely light
laid down
from open windows

thrown sleeping
to the street,
complete,

where ever you will find me
brother you will find me

the small hours

A joyrider rip up Lockland.
It takes barely five minutes
for a precinct helicopter
to dip and swivel over lawns
and two opposing lines of cars
parked innocently snug to the sidewalk.
They haven't found him yet.
Every couple of minutes or so,
my blind soaks in outrageous light
and the helicopter hauls its drone
and feud all over my backyard.
There's a fan over my bed
that says similar things in summer:
adages, reproach and rhetoric.
I talk too much, give far too much away.
In mumbling my company, I reckon on
a twofold payoff: some echo;
being found out, consequence.
I lie low. Minutes swell.
He must be out there somewhere,
lights switched off, crouched and bundled,
foot within an inch of the get-go.
I pull the comforter up over my ears,
count to forty-two, then start over.
I'm trying, trying hard, to hold my breath.

by vona groarke

You can't feel it with your hands.
In your tooth tips,
lips,
wrenching the complaints like jagpipes
to your glasses, a broken tune.
And only across the room.
Amok we go to the morning bakery.
Amok I feel you below the blanket.
A teddy bear beneath your elbow
is no way to live.
The slug's slimy purpose, now compare:
favorable in singularity, but grand totaled
it's hardly worth the metrics.
My god, all that time punching the pillow.
Frumping and rosecheeks.
All that anger mistaken
for health.
A saran-wrap crumpled nose.
Who knows?
I sometimes have those thoughts.
A remarkable, unerring diligence.
But then we have sex and shortly thereafter,
I am free.

grayday grayday

cheap symbol i'm here
talking nobility
while you wait with
a half-handled boning
knife, serape, cigars yes
it's taken me, is not well
belted cloaked hidden you
shouldn't look up the halo
of the moon. in other
worlds the saw
is the law, she will
wear a veil, she may
never see you. a hot
blooded holy, lent back
in strong wind mother
fucker i've seen you
i know you
three times alien
babies in the
plastic pitted
capsule.
artificial
life. ill-fitting
zipper. pathos
particularly mcglincy
you gherkin
i am. i am under
black kerchief mainsail,
the jar,
the man who played with
muddy waters plays how muddy
comes apart. this poem
has no idea
what it is.
this poem is still trying
to wake up.

it's a flower.

reply in the sky

Your pictures are
very cool but they
are also so very very tiny
on the web page.

Awful, hideous, and old
is what we all become,
someday, just
like someday we will all
become babylike and pink,
also sweet and soft
as powder.

St. Paul is a twin
to Minneapolis, and Minneapolis
gave birth to the Replacements,
and I love the Replacements
from the top of my Westerberg
to the bottom of my Stinson.

Good luck
on the redeye
and on the mid west.

Three cheers
to the almost-rendered heart.

an evening in mongolia

Dean Young was sad and Russell
wasn't much better. It's true

we had little
to go on: a few
shaggy ponies, spears. When pressed,
which would you abandon? Usually
you toss them both
to the latest thundering

herd. If we all
walk an endless desert, why
so many poems
about flowers yet
so few about
hot feet? I guess
what I'm saying is

so what. I don't

care what you ordered
for dinner, even
when I get philosophical
about bicycle seats or
the seats that sit idly
upon them. Mostly

when I wander I
do it in the company
of monsters, carrying
the names of by-gone
women: Henrietta, Missie, napkins
folded in our monstrous

pockets. None
of us make comments on
the sand.
What a waste.

If you can't
remember whether you
brushed your teeth, what
are the chances you
actually did?
This is at least a
measure.
Of you,
as a person,
good night.

saturday wordle

saturday saturday saturday

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The far majestic (bly poem)

Your cigarette down-poised, un-lit.
Welcome to the often-tunneled
earth.

Your course is mapped
like a constellation
in the stars.
But the shapes
- the bear the belt
the crab the stupid-
handled pot -
you don't buy it.
Are you so desperate
against the dark?

Maybe it's a trick
for memory. But is that wisdom
or excuse?

Luckily age
has taught you to doubt.
Often, yourself.

These days you're happy
making love slowly. You wish
the coffee stayed hotter
in the cup.
What if
the world could give up wanting.
You ask that to the ass
of every young girl.

Friend,
what map could possibly lead you?
What starshine
will sing you
through the night?

Obvious Poem

Part of me is very sad.

It's not the part
that is given a latte
by the beautiful woman.
Or that eats a blueberry
muffin still melting
from the oven.

But it's there.

It's not the part that sits
with my friends on Saturday.
That hears "good job" at
the office. The rustle
of paper. That's not
the job
but I hear it.

There is the danger
of too much obviousness.

Why?

As if the worst
that would happen
is that life becomes
too still.
Too simple.
Like a cucumber
sandwich
on a plate.

Just fucking eat it.

Oh, heart.
We still wander
a black ocean.
Tell me when it is
we'll go home.

Warhammer 40K quotes

• Beat your thoughts to the mold of your your will.
  
  -- Attributed to Leman Russ
  
  
• Pain is an illusion of the senses, despair an illusion of the mind.
  
  -- Assassin Proverb
  
  
• Though my guards may sleep and ships may lay at anchor, our foes know full well that big guns never tire.
  
  -- The Tyrant of Badab
  
  
• Here I am and here I shall die.
  
  -- Attributed to Leman Russ at the battle of Rising Fell
  
  
• Do not waste your tears. I was not born to watch the world grow dim. Life is not measured in years, but by the deeds of men.
  
  -- Unknown
  
  

writing a poem on wednesday night

I thought I would as
there was little
else: sitting
in this chair,
dying. From
somewhere
a violin
sawed like
the happiness
hissing out of
a beachball, epic
deflation and then:
again. Why am I
lost in the memory
of vinyl. Why am I
dying of wide ties
and glasses. Why do I
sit in this chair smelling
orange.