Fight Songs

Tony's got a new pair of socks
don't ya know I'm from
the North way out way back
deer do not stack
in piles to be burned though I do enjoy the scent of burning.  Can I come back to collect the bones.  It feels like to hold the scorched ivory against palm when it's still warm and imagine being right up close against the bone when it splits against the force of the brain expanding, cooked and smattering, splitting and greasy, like a gecko slithering between cracks unhinging, the skull well greased and...

Tome.

To make a breaking wave and shaking in its haze and quaking, jog.  Just.

What is just.  Describe yourself in twenty thousand words and just.

The toast did not go over well.  At least the toaster worked.  Pretty well as far as sound goes.   I have not heard the ghost screaming through the fabric of time and space and I have run the numbers and it will be at least twenty two years.  Before anyone will have a solid answer after you are dead and gone.  There will be plenty of time to wonder.  About why we are here is a delicious symptom of too much.  Could be waking and realizing you are. How

Vomit.

Vomit.

Flett''s got a new pair of socks.
Don't ya know!
I'm from!

The North way!

Out back-
If you shout,
I've heard,
the trunks of the trees atop Skinner's peak
will howl back.

The Scrapyard In July

One mile above the sea floor
and four miles beneath the waves
and feathered sunlight
and shadows streaking between
innumerable clouds
silt drifts
snow.
Leaves tilt
in the wind and pollen
gifts fits of sneeze, gripping
a steering wheel while sweat falls.
On the scale for the dozenth time,
windows down while music blares,
how much is the metal worth?

The trees are shedding again.

Beach ball sized seeds
in the breeze come inside
from the driver window down and out
through the passenger.

75 yards ahead
a toy caterpillar armored beast
piles engine blocks together,
the scent of their collective grease
thick as sunlight in the air.

Do not worry, baby.  I will not
let it eat you.

Green light to drive to the pit
where appliances go to die.

Have We Met

You have a bone collection!  I have one too.
Run a nail underneath each opalescent scale
above your blades and muscle, hard enough
to snatch a chuckle burbled the way
birds do at night before the clocks are set back.


I miss you.


You have a paper collection!  I have one too.
Writhe upward from a squat the way snakes do,
venomous, dorsal tines sparking
the way metal is wont and ripped,
turned toward rock and sand.


I miss you.


You have a tool collection!  I have one too.
Bridge nosed close; backward petaled
eyebrows feathering in hymns,
your charred skin and scorched hair stench
mingled with my own.


I miss you.

Summer Swig

The water bottle
still capped
on the countertop
beside where a wallet laid.
Keys retrieved and pocketed.
A yellow miniature duffle
once laid on the rug below;
a mess of oil splotched wrenches,
drivers, machine odored rags, and
electrical odds inside.
A bead of ice cold condensation
rolls down its shimmering body
to pool at counter's edge.
Each droplet begs for
the kiss of human lips
on their way down.
Pops and a sudden hiss
from the bottle mouth:
impatience!  "Drink me"
the ice inside demands.
Too late remembered.
Too far at work.
Warm as the day is long
by the time
home is gained once more.
Water bottle
poured and capped fresh
returned to tomorrow's
freezer door.

Four Cawing Doves

Three dead ends.
Two.
One machine to travel in.
How dare you damage it
willfully.
Save yourself.
Spreading brush fires;
save yourself.
Why would you seek to harm me?
I have done nothing you know.
When you break down.
When you die.
I will not help you,
and the sun will rise tomorrow. 

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.

Jack

Shouting into the void,
pitched coins tumble down
and down to ricochet clink
along tar slick stone walls
and their gristled black lichen,
glimmering at water's slip.
Plink.
The pleasantry of candle light on
Friday.  A quarter that would
otherwise feed
a cigarette machine & jukebox
tumbles, a lighthouse lamp
too far and too night to warm.
Plink.
Listen and hear the algae
creep into the well stone's seams.
Eyes close and open
to the land of Neversleep.
Beyond the ripples
along the well's wet face.
Plink.
Come play with me.
Come play with me.
The Shelty, fourteen years deceased
tugs at fingertips and snuffles a palm.
He will understand in time.
Everything sleeps.
Plink.