Song To My Mother

If you had the years back
that you whispered about
across the faux granite kitchen table cleaned,
crosswords and papers and notes,
packets of artificial sweeteners,
phone pamphlets and applications,
half eaten toast and tea cups gone cold,
unfinished math problems and pencils,
the loose change unorganized and all
face up, broken earring and tabloids,
and oh so much mail to sort
would you break into the same pieces
the same repurposed tupperware
for your parts
waiting
for someone to reassemble you?

Smoker 62

I know we stopped
a long time ago.
Scraping taste buds
to remove goo.
Please, let's not do
an entire pack
in one evening
regardless
of how manic
we are.

Double Blind

The most sensitive tend to be
the chin outs guts sleaved two sawed-offs for hands,
named Dance and Whitney,
folk.

Confidence never rides quietly.
Silence is thunderous.

A screaming argument in the middle of the street
while the moon mediates with its hand on its chin:
"state your case."

Paranoia, purranoya, don't you know me by now?
Lived through and with interpretations of happened.
When it shows up in a television show
or a movie or a song or anything
once removed

digestible.

When it shows up in a human damaged clearly,
off what is considered normal for reasons easy,

endearing.

The oft used trap and trick doors and veiled paper bags
inside of paper bags to make what is on a mind passable
is not my gas and to reclaim that fuel would be nice
to warm palms against a fire that is not hackneyed
thirteen ways to hell (I'm pretty sure, check the bus schedule).

Honest and top of the morning.  Always confuzzled. 
Shear a nose to save the face; I don't have the stomach for surgery.
Halloween comes once a year.

In the Superman movie with Christopher Reeve... Zod and his crew should be
approaching Neptunes orbit by now, assuming that weird glass had the same velocity
back then.  I have not run the numbers.  I am fairly sure
they are still in Sol's neighborhood, farting around
and playing their 3000th game of cards.

Twenty years from now
I will not understand
how a body can judge itself harshly enough to see
every piece of information incoming as a judgement on its is.
Then again

I am not they.

Can you play
dice games in
zero gravity?

Lens

I haven't been able to remove myself from my work.
Haw haw.  Is that how people laugh these days?  I
tend to cackle still.  I'm not sure when that started.
It is an abrasive laughter, to be sure.  A sort of demonstrative,
so to speak.
Thinking backward through the years, it is organic.
Has it use?  No.  Absolutely no.  Formed (shall we
dive) in the crucible of gifting courtesies to fit in.
There did cum a time to change because gray areas
had to be clarified.  A courtesy laugh was a curtsy.
A belly laugh was a howl.  My father made jokes.
Cheap jokes.
He had a few dozen recycled ones and a few
that were spurred by the moment of our conversation.
If I had a nickel, I would be fifty dollars richer.
I would destroy him in a battle of construction.     

Easily.

I haven't been able to remove myself from my work.

The remove has not been writer's block

or any myths like it.  Effort to effect

change is pain filled.  I miss flow.

I continue to tell myself, while

dying and hoping for a chance

to pull a trigger with no

repercussions, we will

get back to it.

Patience with

yourself

is key.

Patricide

A funny way
to think about
how water in the air
catching and bending light
when the sun rises over the hills,
500 miles and more away,
some light spilling
across the Allegheny's ripples,
is that it is one more day
and
one more day forgiven.

Walk Like an Angel (junkyard mix)

I'm still getting used.
The hammers fall
and heels kllonk.

Onward to the sun.
The powder mixed wrong.
Stepped on again; Gods damned it.

Films slide by
the way skins peel off of lips.
My glasses.  My glasses!  My glasses!
Have you ever been stranded
two miles offshore
to swim for your life if you want to?

A horse and a slay
to carry the day.
Grandma was senile when she died.

Something so beautacious
so silly gorgeous and sporting
so fresh, you ragamuffin!
"Yeah" is not "Yes".

Or was that Marie.
Or was that Harvey.
Envy the extended families and
burn them to death that
you may collect their bones
if you deign to take the time to know.

Tea, with a dash of
concentrated pet milk from a can and
two cubes, decaf of course.
A walk to the salon and a
car ride that stinks
of the carpets tread plastic shoes.

Plants grow, windows shut, insects
stuck to the laundry tree.
G.I. Joes and laughter and matchbox cars
and tiny apples and fear
hanging in the corner of every room.
Grandfather clock chime.
Twitching blue nailed toes.
Why didn't the nerve sever.
56 books beneath the coffee table.
Mirror wall for space for what.
Dead dog statue.
What was its name.
Why are the plants not outside.
The garage is packed.
What is that smell
inside of my backpack?
I don't want to sleep on the floor again.
Is she going to die?
The clocks are unfit.
Where are the encyclopedias.
The chairs are many.
The jokes are thin.
Be a man.
Bury your secrets.

Tricks of The Trade (Uncle Tyrone)

I don't remember who won that game.  Probably you.

With relatives disparaged the morning after.  Funny

the assignment list grew.  Keep up appearances.

Guess who's coming for dinner.





The VHS player runs and an elaborate dinner enough

to keep each member's mind occupied until

the maintenance work is done and the stories are told,

at least the ones the little'uns are to learn from and

consciousness of the small sneakers and little hands

faded in to nostalgia and stories of work too large

for young eyes and hands to do and gossip too large

for restless smiles and darting evangelic eyes to track.






Pow pow!

Basketball hits stone outside and rolls to Tyrone's shoe.

Burgundy scrubs.  A nurse.





Dad said you flipped a tank

and got kicked out of the army for it.

Can you hit it from across the street?

I haven't tried (I lied).  A rubber skinned ball through a hoop

at 40 feet once.  That car parked in the driveway of that guy

dad chats up sometimes that he's been trying to get to study group.

We're not supposed to be over there or something.

He's bad.  Air ball.  I swear, I did it once.  I shovel his driveway

sometimes.







So your pops plays you?

No.  I like to play by myself.  Sometimes the neighbors play too.

Has he ever played you?

Yup, he always wins when he does, but he always cheats.

Here's what you have to do, okay?  Layup swish.

There is a button.

Mhm.

Alright, shoot it.

That's not fair!






Just poke them right there!  Right when their arms go up!  Brick.

Belly button, man.  Poke them in the belly button or low ribs!  Brick.

No, that's stupid!  That is so shitty!

Right in the ribs, man!  Every time.  Shoot it again, I know you're quicker!

See!  Why you laughing, why you laughing, you know I got you! Shoot!

You going to try it on someone else?

Nope.

It's good to know though, right?

Yup.  Giggle.  Brick.

Alright, little man.

Smoker 59

Between fingertips
embers light and suss.

Tears dry.  We can
kill them.

We can kill them.

Cursed.  Blessed.  War.

Given up on crying.  A teardropular object.

I've heard the stockpiles of drums (bass)
buried beneath the dunes around Dakota
are going south.

Might be the mountains.  My geography is shit.

You heard about that?

Do you have a magic marker?

Silly is like cologne.  Gear?  Three.  Cruising?  Mh-hm.
Cruising speed.  Hypersleep.  Upon arrival
ready
to go to war.  Beheadings
are not without their "cannot go back".  In the theme
of what turns
a rum runner
into a red drum
and a bass runner

is rules.

Three five seven snub hug
hip
hippie
fuck boy wink
rotate

Dream.

Wake.

He can
t
hu
rt
you]]\\\\

He cannot hurt you anymore.  He cannot hurt you.
You are okay.  Ten four?

Smoker 57

Can I appropriate your words?
Fire, Walk With Me/
The no gooders do gooders
she makes me cry no moar
loud more kings more games
do not begin to describe
how razor I can be
tough I can be rough I can rhyme
like a shut the fuggup.

There was a time I used to count the eyelashes on your upper eyelid.  There was a time when I used to count the sound of the licks on your back side.  Got dahmn, we both know the sound of the wings of just how time flies.

Some things don't change.  Thirty years old and you still get to enjoy how pops still fights like.  Holy biz, I'm glad like
if I was there I would
make a new song like
dot dot dot
fuck double taps
I will triple up
his forehead
little screw holes
and a bit
of more lead
because he still doesn't understand
if he hurts one of us
he hurts all of us

and what's more is

theonlythingholdingmebackisthefactistherackofpotentialunrealizedonhiswatchandI'dlovetokillbutmylifemeansmorethanthatshitthathesonandIwasgonetheminuteshedecidedwithhimandIwasgonetheminuteItoldwhatshewasonandsheleftmefordeadandImdoneputtingbabytosleepTheygavemesevenyearsIgavethemmyfutureandtheyateituplikeIwasleasedandsoweareenemiestiloneofusdiesfuckyouI can not

I will not

I refuse

the gate of a lie.

Fire up the lighter.  Roll toward the surface to air missile.  Break toward it and afterburn.

When It Comes To World's End

When it comes to world's end,
I walk the line.

In all and all,

gas over winter and Winter over nuke,
blues over pop, drowning over electronica,
shelling over vaporization (again) ,
fragments in flesh over gas,
door to door kick ins
over breach.  And
target practice
over live rounds.

Five hundred pound packed  steel cans
of cement.  Phosphorous and chlorine.

Fields of wire and actual mines capable
of upending a tank and quite capable
of relieving you of your limbs.
Who would wish that on a taste for flame.

Come again? So there was this one day.

Seven concussions in.  I hate everything.

Broken noses and

I get tired of i c io knknen  ne nea a . I get
tired of fixing things.  It is exhausting.

The dream faded a long time ago.
That soup fed for years, we all know it.
It's gorgeous.

Golden.

Sundial

Glance up
at the points above.  Tiny windows miles overhead.
On board the H.S.N. Yiinkf.  Automatic doors
at the gas station on Earth.  The news said
it was coming back.

What the hell is taking so long
to leave.  Three weekends ago.  Four?
The cops still come around.
Ritual 12:15 lunch break.  Oh fifteen?

Turn up the headset.  "Light pollution,"
pass the bills.
Take the smokes.  "Used to be able to see the moon-"

Exit.  What is that ship still doing up there?
Pull 1, flip it lucky, replace.

What does the sunrise look like from there?

January Kiss

Home from Emma's birthday party
we stayed long enough to make the train schedule
in time.  Stopped off at the drug store,
do they still call them that,
to make up costumes and you went as a box:
packing tape on every seam.
I went as bargain bin socks.
"Last minute idea," we agreed,
was too easy.

The debate on table games ran long,
my mind drifts over the ease of frat house logic
and quarters broached and shot down
before the "wart" left my mouth
to make "quarters".
A window glance
to remind we are 29 floors up
and it is a one way ride
to the sidewalk.

A beat to glance at the telescope's
empty space.  "Why don't they have one?"

Undressed and too dressed to fuck.
Oh, they'll break up soon.  She's on a tour.
Not a "last hurrah!" sort of thing,
but he did say some weird shit
while we played Connect Four before she
disappeared for half of an hour.

Breathing in your fresh toothpaste:
"let's touch eyeballs."
The old joke turns and hiccoughs.
Let's touch eyeballs.
Noses mash while lips rest and
breaths from inside your wings
come to rest in my chest.

Eyelash tickle and flinch and wince.
"I'm tired too."  Agree that folks should learn
to dance more often.
Your phone is on the kitchen counter,
not the L line's seat.
Pajamas.  Mine is in the freezer.
How else will I remember
to put ice cubes in my water come morning.

Breathing in, noses eyelashes apart.
I love you.  I envy you your friends.
Let's see them again.  Breath in.  Breath out.
Whisper.  Listen to your lungs
like a neighbor sex offender and warm
my insides by your bellows, feeding a fire.

"Let's go out tonight."
Your quiet heart.  Your memories.
Your Emma.  Your party.
Our confetti, our dance.  Our argument
parting ways to work and
I thought you had fun too.
I'm sorry.

Lighter spark.
Gray tendril licks the sky blanketed in stars.
I'm glad you can sleep.
Old friends and music and table games.
I miss you already, tamping out a cigarette
on a stairwell bolted to the side of building.
Come morning
you will not miss me.

Remember When It Used To Snow?

Tapping fingernails against a cheek
to figure out what to wear
while the global scheme is flux.

A few degrees separates
hot from brush-fire
wet from slush
snap cold from snow
humid from hurricane
Sol from desert
and chilly from black ice.

All purpose spacesuit
will suffice.

The long run is
Christmas trees
decorated with beach shells,
different from
frost.

Remember when they had a chance
to say
"fuck that"?
Your kids are
going to have a bone to pick with you.

The Boy And His Bat

Whatcha doin?
Hammering nails into a bat.
Why?
Because I have to go talk to someone.
Why?
Because they are very bad listeners.
Why?
Because they're used to not having to and their ears don't work.
Why?
Because that's how it's always been.
Why?
I don't know, kid.
Why?
Because if you ask questions you get your head caved in.
Why?
Because that's how it's always been.
Why?
Because a long time ago the people in power decided
we were not people.
Why?
Their god told them so.
Why?
Because it was easy to believe.
Why?
It was comfortable.
Why?
I don't know, kid.
Why?
I've never felt that way.
Why?
I stopped believing in gods.
Why?
Because Jesus doesn't save.
Why?
Because some things cannot be forgiven.
Why?
If you forgive, they are free to hurt you again.
Why?
Second chances, third chances, and on and on.
Why?
Because killing is wrong.
Why?
Do you want to die?
No.
How would you feel if I took your life away?
Bad.
And how would you feel if I took your life away,
but you didn't die.
I dunno, that sounds weird.
Doesn't it?
Yeah.
Killing is wrong, you got that.
Mhm.

Tracers 3

after Such Great Heights




I cried myself to sleep
until my sockets freed
themselves from the meat cage they stowawayed.

You, out there on the road
telling yourself it's all a lie
will hear the shrillest highs and lowest lows
when this song haunts you at the doorstep of your home.

That, frankly, will not fly.
Use a wrist to dry your eye.
The one that still has skin that has not been able to regrow.

Somewhere in the grass
where you lay your spine to rest
where you check the pockets of your vest
to breath out and find your phone
while the fire pit you built cracks

and the stars above are the same
the moon exactly where you left.

The world, it did not die,
your howl did not spy
a new peak or tree line.
You know there is still no where for you to dine.

So watch
the fires from afar.
Dance while all of the tracers fly.
Wait for the ash to settle
and nudge the bodies that you find
before taking a bite
to survive.

Can I Kiss You Once Each Year? 2

Wake from the dream
where I lick your toes
each until your alarm
goes off to go to work, eyelids droop.

I can't have forgotten.
Mouth dry, awake at 12:31 A.M.
on fire.
The kitchen in order and your car locked.

Not Friday.  Saturday.  Sniff
your hair trailing over the sofa arm.
Tell the difference.
Song of the stereo still playing

in the dream background,
the real crash in window shard sliver.
The slaughter houses we march
after well rounded breakfast.

Wake with a second pinch
to rinsing a shaver and huff polish
a mirror with bare elbow so that
you can see, held right,

the flipped image
of what I shaved into your hips.
You are seeing a breeze on the brush.
Let me lick my thumb!

We are going to be rich.
Can I say hello?  Once.  Every year.
Darling, golden, purr.
Purr and hum.  The track's song.  Fault lines.

Jawbone Lisp 2

Each morning wake
to find the teeth maligned.  The wisdom
teeth stopped growing at age twenty nine.
The pain subsided and a new road was in
with leather jacket, collar up, muscle car with fins.

Numbed out for weeks and a bandage round my 'ead.
"No, I have not yet got out of the damn bed!"
Reminded, should I have been paid for the
tracks that were road to side walk laid
I might be a rich fuck instead of slayed;

instead I mouthed off and gave up the tic tacs;
dentist paid.  Not that squirrely.  Not that hurly.
Blind shot and my evening ended early.

Each morning wake,
at least the pain is gone.

Reminded, eating cereal
of what went on.

The jawbone healed up okay.  The pain I went through
resetting it with my own hands was worth it.  I don't owe
hospitals anything.  Every spat and pat of butter blood
into the toilet flushed and back to bed, bandage back
in place was worth it.  Every sneeze and cough that
was brushed off instead of telling friends how much it
fucking hurt to open my eyes absolutely worth it.  I

re set my own damn jaw.  Re lived the night and the gnaw.
The hours, days, weeks, months, and finally got back to
a place where I could yawn without bursting to tears
immediately.
A pain I never saw
coming.  A pain that was months long
humming.
Aye
aye
aye

aye

aye, dog.

Can we split that sandwich?

Ode To Friendship

My teeth do not align
the way they were born to be.
My jaw is made of glass
wrapped in gauze with
rivets through and through.
My knuckles are knit
tightly, cotton and tape and rice glue
stuck between fingers.
A few gaps are filled with gravel,
a few filled with spit and snot.
 Tape wraps around my wrists.
Rope wraps around my ankles.
Lead hangs about my shoulders
to slow me down to your speed.
Fire comes from my ears.
Steam comes my mouth.
Teeth blare loud enough
to give the blind sight,
to make the deaf cry.
We exchange footprints along the
guides.  Scent and sent and scent again.

Best of five.  Best of ten.  Best of sixty one.

Wiped sweat from above,
touch gloves,
you will die.

Six Inches

The day
the snap and split of bone
touches your ear
between the 16 set of teeth in jaw
spread the sea red
nailed tongue and roof
upward between the eyes
to close a maw and seal tight
the cave of wonder locked
once and for all.

Six inches from contact
split uprights
and
a kiss.

Fantasy.
What are you afraid of?
A hilt?
The kiss?
Or my eyes two centimeters away
from your own,
your gun still
in its hiding place?

Three inches
would have made it.
Four is over kill.

Six
is
a
statement.

Stake and art and think
next time
before you decide
to temp.

Darts

All teeth and brows and
dimples.

Rare joy and meat.

Scratch and chalk.  Bracket.

Freed emotion
if you can lick a square.

Bull =sigh= plastic.

Shame glory. V is for end day.  Bull

I shit you not.