Thursday, April 26, 2012


The rich-sweet taste of sliced almond
in my mouth, satisfaction or
contentment throwing me a bone.

I could smile away an evening
if you were in my
mouth. Thinking of you now, your blonde

underskin, your brown
epidermis the color
of dirt, of cool earth, I think you are like slow

coffee and several cigarettes
following a meal of beefsteak, fried
potatoes, a perspiring glass of High Life

in hand, my ass in a rocking
chair, grease still in the plate, humidity
plenty hot.

handkerchief sandwich

My poem "Handkerchief Sandwich" can be found in this month's edition of Elimae. Here's a link.

Monday, April 23, 2012

the janitors of existence

My friend says we don't have breakdowns, only
breakthroughs. I think
the operative word here must be
break, something related to the present tense form
of broken. Either way
the breakthrough
is a breaking through
of the bottom.
After all,
the bucket empties
whether you kick it through
or down
doesn't it? Either way, a lot of liquids
to deal with. I think the operative word here must be
mop, with all that you've got to do in life;
I wonder if we are just the janitors
of our existences, mopping
up the excess fluid
or simply
spreading it around, depending
on the nature of the pay.

Friday, April 20, 2012

I climbs the ladder
twisting away from the wall

I cleans the adder, sets him loose
to crawl the bedsheets of the bathroom stall

in daylight broad as the sun
and as deep as the sea

and will continue--to set before him
the things he wants to eat

chicken egg or leaf
marrow yolk or grief

(rat after rat after rat
eat and eat and eat)

if that is all there is for me to know
when seeds don't sprout

and plants don't grow


The processional of pain

in the artifice of your heaving
chest. Your mouth over the porcelain

god, your putrid and


a sick and rejected

of your earnings: a liquid

of decayed
process. I would get you clean

baby, if only I knew how. I did
my best to reach into

your mouth

to pull out the thing
eating out your guts

but lost my hand
in the process.

Friday, April 13, 2012


Gollyjeebers what a pretty fucking day.
Outside, all the fun.
The sun, the lake is making blue,
blue that's as wide and clean
as a white-toothed grin.
In here, in the book cave, all the interminable
think-time proceedeth forth
like a monotonously beated line
--one-two, one-two--
all the introspection that tends to drive poets
of all schools, eras, and times
headfirst through the wall.
It's too sunny to think about
dying but sometimes I wonder
how to think about
anything else.
Go outside.
I want to go out
and smoke cigarettes in the sun
to do the healthiest thing I know how.
Tell my therapist I'm worried

I'm always worried.
Now the days are turning wider
in a more optimistic gyre,
and I wonder how addiction works
waiting on my wife to come home.
To have indulgent
talk with her. Ask her do I only indulge

She understands
my crazy songs
translates for me the wider world
and I play her not to sleep
as the days get wider.