05 September 2015
31 December 2013
we would have struck a match if we had had a match and if we had had a place to strike it but there was no place just as there was no place in the infamous inn but there were milky moonlets in the frozen hoof prints and in the frozen paw prints: some crazy moulage from some crazier crime a rustling maybe where little lambs bowed down and doggies bowed, wowed.
31 October 2013
I had a dream, I had a dream I had a dream he climbed on me The carpenter's son, he climbed on me He had a dream, he had a dream The angel said you better take Mary That Joseph man, he had a dream She had a dream, o, she had a dream Sweet little Mary, o, she had a dream She dreamed you'd climb on me I had a dream, I had a dream I had a dream, I had a dream They cut me down and you climbed on me outro I had a dream, I had dream I had a dream he climbed on me They cut me down and they They cut me down and then They cut me down and you climbed on me
11 September 2013
The cigarette of my wasted life burning down burning down burning down At your lips at your pretty lips flicked away flicked away flicked away now The cigarette of my wasted life bad for you bad for you bad for me The cigarette of my wasted life burning down burning down burning down Memory memory memory long long gone - gone - gone gone gone Just a smoldering wick right now till the LORD takes me to His mouth The cigarette of my wasted life burning down burning down burning down At your lips at your pretty lips flicked away flicked away flicked away now burning down burning down burning down
31 August 2013
17 July 2013
some of us will leave our lanes to cover this fire to crush this haughty flame yet once again: a furnace that still burns us with its pretty look daddy fur and severed paws pouring forth beauty like heaped- up coals on our ugly heads and haunting our slinking off to our abednego beds
07 July 2013
30 June 2013
25 June 2013
entranced with enough english dovie’s cue ball’ll walk duly to the new striking place and the waiting cue: already scuffed and chaulked and armed with powder blue kisses
19 June 2013
13 June 2013
09 June 2013
Because he might need a Black Toad bottle cap crimped at one hun- dred twenty degrees, he can’t discard it, but keeps one of six Maybe a lady will seek safe passage across frozen tun- dra through a hoard of malevolent Huns and that cap might be the only weapon or useful disguise (you know, used to scratch or worn as a patch) that is small enough to smuggle or that we’re able to hide until we most need it ― as I replay it ― at the last minute So, I can’t blindly just throw it away
04 June 2013
Here’s the bottom line: is your poem of such robust spine and buxom embrace of such tonic balm such bouquet and taste of such sonic boom exquisite menu and coo that it might coax despairing toes off of spotlit ledges or bowed- down heads away from unlit stoves?
02 June 2013
i. BETTER let tomorrow let tomorrow let tomorrow better let it take care let it take care care of itself. Listen little children ― Would I? Would you? Would this one here? Would we pull the covers of tomorrow onto our beds? And then the day after that? and then next week? and next month? All piled up. All at once. ― Y’all go on and talk to me now ― As if we had ’em all. All the linen. All the bedclothes of a five-star hotel. And so piled up ― stacked up ― ceiling- high? Wouldn’t we smother beneath the weight and heat of them – tossing ourselves into our very own fiery furnace. Today is hot enough. Heavy enough. Trouble enough. ii. WE’D be pinned flat down like a butterfly under a stack ― a big stack of flapjacks. That butterfly might melt but it’s not getting much sleep. Y’all hearing me? Be still my soul? I really don’t think so. That’s not stillness of our sweet souls my brothers and sisters. We can be still. We can be still. Because He wasn’t still. Jesus came down. All the way down. Some of you have heard this before. Way down. To Mary’s womb. Hand-him-down swaddling clothes. Pretty flimsy. Like the lily. Y’all got me distracted. So where was I? Be still. Our souls. We might be really still. But really grim. And beaten down. Our typical tossing and turning might stop. That’s for sure. iii. BUT Jesus gives us rest. For the weary. But not pinned down. My Jesus was pinned down. So we don’t need to be pinned down. The biggest deed is done. All the way done. So we can rest. So we can sleep under the light light sheet of just today ― not that weigh-me-down shroud of days and weeks and months and years. There is a seven-star hotel. We need to go sleep there. And you can’t afford it. But it’s all free. All the way paid. Jesus says sleep under His cool covers – It is finished. His pollen soft, but warm. Diaphanous. Lily linen. And ev’ry. Body. Said. Amen. Amen. Sister Betty, come on up and lead us: Come Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy.
01 June 2013
propping the shovel hoe and rake spooling out twine plunging the stakes kneeling dimpling the harrowed plot thumbing simple tombs in the pocks releasing the pink dusted bombs dozing over dirt with a palm
a display of faith this arming counting on another rising their pearl green necks rolling their respective stones exploding revealing in each yawning seed applaudinga leaf a tongue the dumb report
31 May 2013
In his younger years, when he was bung-full of sap, the mere shadowing of a swallow jetting past would spook his wool- gathering gaze. But now, the blue jay’s jeering and juking and the mocking bird’s mania and the mourning dove’s rugged flute are all drummed up inside his napping. Like funneled swifts down deep chimneys.
29 May 2013
flip my pillow over baby and let me feel your shading tree cradle my brain- pan with one hand while the other one does the deed rip the bandage from my body change the damage sop up the dream so distract me with your singing that you don’t ring a tear from me grip my ankles with your let-down hair and phantom some quickening there remember feathered Hermes was fashioned in the shadows of a cripple’s dancing fire ______________________________________________________________________ Hephaestus was the Greek god of craftsmen, fire, and volcanoes. His Roman counterpart was Vulcan. In addition to making the armour of Achilles, the girdle of Aphrodite, the chariot of Helios, and the bow and arrows of Eros, he also fashioned the winged sandals (talaria) and helmet (petasos) of Hermes (Mercury). He says of himself in the Odyssey, Book VIII: “I was crippled from birth” (ἐγώ γε ἠπεδανὸς γενόμην).
25 May 2013
lowercase ::h:: a place to drape your cape folder of bodies molder of laps a place for dandling for dancing lion tamer’s prop site of chess master’s endless loop the brawler’s favorite weapon the carpenter’s teetering throne balanced on the ledge of heaven the front two angel-lathed legs dangling
22 May 2013
20 May 2013
MISTER D. is always with me. He’s there, mugging in my mirror: tonguing his teeth, spritzing every perfume. Goofing off at the market: sampling cheeses and juggling fruit. AND there he is, near my lover’s bed ― even when fevered fingers are climbing my spine ― waving that silly scythe, making some nice shadows and lights for the seeming, but very little breeze. MISTER D. is always with me.
19 May 2013
16 May 2013
14 May 2013
Plump Robin o, you swag so, when you fly each down-beating of your wings up brings a crest and then the trough ― when wings come up ― of waving sine Your flight’s a fancied garland unwound from yonder tree ― the galloping Richter's pencil ― the scallops of tremor's tinsel ― a stretch of your E KG In a dream ― I shan’t say whose ― upside down someone dreamed you flew O, winsome swimmer your lantern breast bobbing ― a constant crest ― O, Plump Robin o, how you flew
10 May 2013
Driving Around after the Reunion, with my Wife (the Former Cheerleader) Asleep in the Back Seat, Relishing my Rival’s Demise
She’s sleeping soundly I’m driving roundly all up and downly our homely townly O, there’s the store-y where we adore-y ’way-laid her ringly and out danced singly And speaking of-ly my sleeping lovely and other way-lies of ’waying laidly Since Dirk was deadly it could be saidly she was finally minely for all timely
07 May 2013
i. SHE bit me on the arm when I tried to hold her AFTER she told me and I didn’t believe her. SHE didn’t draw blood but the mark was there for days. ANGRY didn’t quite describe it – she was crazy. ii. SURE. I bit him. When I dashed away, he captured from behind – seizing my wrists – then X-ing all four of our arms across my breast. So, I bit down. Hard. Off to see Elizabeth. HOPE it leaves a mark.
05 May 2013
Plump Robin o, you swag so, when you fly each down-beating of your wings up brings a crest and then the trough ― when wings come up ― of waving sine O yes, your flight’s a fancied garland unwound from yonder tree ― stretched out but still such rolling as a string of pinned-up tinsel penciled ’cross the scene In a dream ― I shan’t say whose ― upside down someone dreamed you flew O, winsome swimmer your lantern breast bobbing ― a constant crest ― O, Plump Robin o, how you flew
30 April 2013
29 April 2013
28 April 2013
The window opened on Paris or Prague or some other sampled city ― and your fingers ― well, two of them ― outlined an O. Were you smoking ― the glass was touch-dusty ― or pinching some delicacy? Perhaps you were signing “okay”? The O fell back into shadow then, oboe-like, returned. This time, with its lowercase mate, glowing.
27 April 2013
Sometimes there is a single tree in the middle of farmer’s field. And you wonder how it escaped the blades of one hundred winters. But there it is at plowing time a shadeless lamp amidst the brown furrows — formed by some Zen master with his red rake held out behind an old tractor. A stark living room décor. But summer will bring the dainty things: leaves for old trees and a carpet of Jubilee, overachieved. ________________________ Jubilee is a variety of sweet, yellow corn. See also Leviticus 25.
26 April 2013
HE rode with Custer. But wasn’t Custer. And he rode with Sitting Bull. But this one wasn’t Sitting Bull, either. Just as dead. Just as renown. This poem levels the field of fame. Because. On this day. When your dripping kerchiefs ― just dipped ― touched their brows ― the nameless brave ― their dried crud went pink with enough water. History is [proverb goes here].
25 April 2013
23 April 2013
WHY call this a crush? I guess it sounds quaint enough, the puppy lovey ― moods of youth ― naïve nothings. Nothing heavy or lasting here, so move along. The only blood is blush: unpainted- on. THERE are pens ― called crush-pens ― for cattle and sheep, which narrow like a funnel: at the business end is the branding iron, glowing like the inside of a star ― or ― so I suppose. For your ass ― it hisses, coming back down, closer to home. Not to mention the unbecoming ― though mysterious ― fit of the crèche. But who’s to say it’s not serious. UNABLE to breathe. Unable to move. Ask any orange. Juiced. Isn’t that you?
21 April 2013
IF I had such power, I would put on a show: hocus my pocus and focus my potions with lots of hand motions into that black hole BUT the Carpenter simply cries ― for the sake of the crowd ― out loud: Lazarus, come on out and play. And the rest of you, strip him down ― down like Adam ― on Eve’s first day
20 April 2013
NOT even a full feather but a tiny torn portion floating from, I presume, my pillow I blow at it ― keeping it aloft THE delayed response as it shudders, gaining a little altitude as long as divinity angles up from down below TELL me true how is this unlike my own fleeting flight ― torn ― borne up ― blown and then gone finally fallen below the backlighting of window
15 April 2013
13 April 2013
ITS tail was ripped from old bedclothes ― a train of crude bow ties. And since it was cloud-sheering windy, we made it royal-long ― almost convincing each other she’d fly. The maiden flight was short ― and bitter: the scatter-brained store-bought parts looping in crazy eights ― flashing infinity signs. NOW dangled upside down like the escape artist in his sack, tangled by its tail in the still- bare limbs of the old black elm, the distorted diamond quivers and crackles ― there ― unreachable. AND so we await the slow ― but certain ― secret curtain of summer ― then all the stripping done by fall ― to be unveiled there for the winter view ― no Houdini ― just the spine and the spar of a balsam cross.