catfish in the hole

In darkness 

a serenity; no one to holler

me, only the trenchish sea-bottom

of darkness: of the morning that is night,

the 2am singing, soft, sweet

over sycamore leaves. The churchyard

wilted, the county fair a fistful of trash,

the river silt 

swallowed by a catfish in the hole,

his belly yellow-white, ripe thankful

with fat, with flesh, possibly also

screwdrivers, penknives and paper clips, 

edges of an ancient Budweiser can; 

he loves the night, too, and my papa

sets out hooks for him. (Night: hookful 

thing, not hateful.) The night is true

love: no holler of life here 

smoking up the corrugated 

corridors of my brain, no 

encircling black birds, no tripwires,

only darkness, darkness 

without ire, envy or lies: only the truth 

of the moon, shedding light,
the catfish in the hole, 
river cat
sucking river silt.   

All of the first responders are dead
and they sent me to you with these
pliers.

Help yourself to them before the fire:
the more the teeth, the more
the pull.

I am filling up my chalkboard self with
what else
but more chalk

and more aspartame, because real sugar
is for diabetics
I guess.

recurring dream person problems

You grew a beard in my dream
last night, switched sexes
and declared yourself
as yourself
in a final sense. One hazy
night a month ago you
possessed my lover's body;
becoming her. Blonde hair dyed
black, tan skin
drained fishbelly pale.
What are you doing? I haven't
spoken to you in years and
don't intend to. In my dreams
you're like a man found facedown
in a pile of shit and trash,
enjoying himself. My own face
in the between the burger wrappers
and puss.

madrona

Skeletal pentecostal
swaying outside my window, rain-bit and leaf-crushed,
swing your branches like acid stirred into whiskey-punch
and wish the night gone-by
as I wish it gone-by. Moreover, listen
for the moon arriving
star-faded and sad;
send my love, send my love

The outdoors gone mad now--
ratwhiskers twitch and squirrels
torture baby art-birds beneath streetlamps;
raccoons get all the good
trash, rape screechingly each other
atop human unattended houses
in humid, wet weather;
send my love, send my love

vaguely indiscriminate

We have a country whose primary cultural movers and shakers are focused on fast food and cigarettes, the bad habits. Primary debate reduced to the best smear-campaign or the utterly banal. And here I am smearing with the best of them. Argh. Obesity the great sadness of the first decade of our new millennia, early death, bad choices.

I have a suspicion that this ultimate concern of what goes into the body has replaced our concern with what goes into the mind and heart. Our collective and political concern bears this out; the fact that most graduating high school students can't even afford to go to state-run universities... I think I read that the UW receives a mere 7% of its funding from the state of Washington.

So, let's close our borders. Get those fucking Mexicans back where they belong. Smack down another gay marriage law, cut university spending wherever possible, keep insurance premiums for the very poor just out of reach. Support Israel because Israel... is God's chosen people (I once heard a United States senator say this... he said it outloud.) Yes. This is a good way to run a country.

And those out of control polemics. I feel myself getting sucked into them, and I think I've always hated polemicists (sorry, Hitch, rest in peace, but really, good riddance). Another Youtube clip is going to really help. Especially if I post it.

book burning

sometimes thinking of the tidy
castrati bringing in the sheaves

I wonder, taking S.K.'s impossible
suggestion,

should we stack all the bibles
and burn the dusty pile to the ground

wouldn't there be more blank space
and wider room for sin

so that we may be abound
in gin,

and in the Spirit
wherever them may be found

almonds

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.