26 September 2009


take this one minute against the grain -
wait for sparks or time's dull beat.
we arent heroes in the later branches or
floating beyond this or that ring.
bring the front style realm to
find our breeches in the last intact streak.
its automatic.

here, the vinyl sided dogs of left field -

will the speaker please yield?
tracking like doughnuts on the spoken
wheel -
desperation is a flirty word -
western floors and the cracking peel.

20 September 2009

untitled, loss and what comes next

forget all these cares: the rising seas, the dying seas - the lost grasses of california and fortunes falling down like skatepunks on the half pipe - a bag of bread tied to the belt loop and hop the back fence.
i mean it.
this world is getting tired of asking nice - thinks its high time the 7-11 closed.

scour our teeth with salt.
wait for these lenses to return.
we love a barbed wire fence - a white plastic bag whipped in the wind.
the cameras are rolling - meteorites hiss to the sea.
find the last pinkening dusk and wade across.

oh, sure, we all have to die sometime - take the last train to clarksville – and lay down in wine-soaked dust.
there are no queens - and the kingdom is a piece of junk.

i've stood at the wide open window - four a.m. - and watched venus rise with the last quarter moon.
the sun is just behind those sunburned hills.
the old woman is young and turning this way.

think of the mowed corn as well as that tinkling bell circling our house each each night - then i thought it the ghost of one of many dogs i've found and lost; - sam, who was with us for less than a week - tore the stuffing out of my stepfather's front seat.
i cant remember where he went after that - we came home to find the books unshelved, some half-eaten, and shit on the floor.

now i recall that long ride from home.
my mother opens the door – shoves sam out - puts it in drive, and we leave him to rust.
she says we're setting him free.
out the back window i watched him watch us leave, black and white dog in the center
of that road, gravel and carved through the flatland and oaks - laurel in bloom.

sometimes we find newborns, sightless, pink and doomed, alive beneath tires dumped in the arroyo - most of these tires will never be moved.
the wind kicks hard as the sharp moon slips beneath the ribs of these mountains, rising from the bay.

i'm glad for dexterity and the texture of skin - and the barn owl that floats above my head while i piss.
how she speaks in my tongue as she lands at our door.
i'd like strong water to rinse me as it clatters and glides down the slope - i want to be clean before we reach the shore.
i want to walk on my feet into the next world.