sweet belly one

grafted on the first
light
this heaviness does
not stop, does not lighten,
the simple violence of this
physical undoing parades down
my skull all day
like rain in the
sunniest hour
mouse traps popping-
death clicking through
the
night, through the day
the birth rate
runs rampant, hunters are
mad with liquor
trying to stay up right
shooting
coffee Irish whiskey, jack lights
they fire my brain through
its fish bowl
to mouth its broad emptiness
with in it
the swarm of blood,
issues
rivers to the lake
to the canons
better served by the holiest murder:
a fish cut- the feeble fed,
the derelict sun
mooning on and on loving like a cat
lapping milk, as the I creatures
drag on our apatites for days
and long days.

cunning no body removes

to spend one more
word across the page
to mouth over an echo
low to the ground, i
don't know, what is
the alley empty for
at the glowing hour,
what is the heart
empty for at the
hungry crosswalk, under
the significant
traffic light, why
learn one more phrase
why not beg with mute
desperate incantations
stooped over grits
stooped over oatmeal, lentils
over rice & beans
quietly masticating the
soil, in to soul, where
are the stories, the words-
where is the container for
the legumes, the seeds
that stalk up
the mist, and raise
new squash, spent in each
hope, the house of faith,
the body speaking writes
out the menu of the day
the earth made conscious
the bean, the knee, oneiric
& holy.

when the ribbon is cut, then untied

first slate gray light:
this day does not ask
for this
newness
it is
broken
with ice as
rain it
wants
forgiveness
and then
refuses it
long in the
blond morning hours
it is
formed as an
old shape, a stone, a
stream left cold
for
water has
worked its daily
toil there and
is there no more-
it is
the
landscape
that has always
been
it
holds my
heart
in its cool
depressions- it
holds my heart warm
in its
haunted
grieving air-
perpetual it
allows the hours
to fall here and there,
leaf scattered,
residency
of the vacant street-
waiting for breakfast noon
to unfurl
the promise first suspected
the promise in its eventual
renewal.

the joint undoes the thing blue rose

things to do, all
spirits combine in the
rocky hand to make
lists of things, so each
finger will know it is
not alone, working the
fine documentation
of this
being

roads are named,

so
they can be added to
the list that ascends
the grave-
stone, printed granite
against the honed knife-
Time,

rejoice

the
opus of the bent can
the rust melted off the
fender sun, so many
piled in the yard the
cars reach up to heaven
and ache to die again,
this
is
the quandary of the: traveler,

when to rest

when to go-
stop
to
feed
the pigeons,
stop to tie
up
your boat and speak
at the local talent show,
pray, pray, pray, and in
your closet feel the blood
cool in your
vein, what
else

luxuriate in a woman-

action, and evolution, the sweet
growth of
seduction, and then ...
the bones know this
possession from
dusted nothing to key excesses
and the walled
mornings destruction

coming back

to the middle
of the old town,
the traveler
sits or
saddles, talks
the winter
talk in spring, or
the
wolf pack forest, or
talks of the sea
and
only
when
it
rains,

enjoy the fascinations

of
company (?)- oh,
things to do, let the lazy
hand make
lists of
things to do

blue socks ride the ferry to moon.

18 knows the next line to be
said
out loud
the curve of woman bends
the eye to the ground,
so modeled after death, no
fear can ever ever enter,
the seasons want
specific loves,
of
snow fall of leaves-
gardens, tomatoes, beauties,
beaches, and fires
in
the heart of each one
like love but, unmoving
omni temporal
all here, the girl, the woman that
has bent the world to her knee, bends
as well, and leads in the
sectioning of a grapefruit,
in the translucent tangerine,
in the pear moored out
on the
frozen lake,
out by the boulder
dragged by
memories glacier
there
the air
sharp as crystals, in her
nose, and burns her skin blue
she sings, and signs
the birds their new melody, and
lets the roads forget,
lets the graves turn to
dust, and prints leaflets out
to the dead, and the
dead wait
with the dead, and the lions
and the brutal sun
of the friendless, and the forgotten
the golden seal is delivered by her
absence- she goes
to come back, and then follows,
paw pad,
man
and wraith impressions
to
this blue serenity,
and calls it
Niagara, or home, or thee
and enfolds
the compass of
the world, in her eyes gravity
stunning the wilderness silent
with in me.

thirsty ditch 3

coffee longs for the
curl of a sentence, the
laugh
of man made
ivory, of lost days
coffee longs
for
the
celebration,
for
the
blazed out
buildings after,
for teen
aged minds
frozen in the, long
long prose poem-
smoking
the last of the cigarettes,
the last of the scrapes
of
the
illicit blue
caps of seedy
adolescents
the
destroyer comes at
dawn
and even then the
beautiful people
allow nothing
to come -we want that-
we want
bricks of friends gnarled
by the fiber
of work, by the weave of heroes
by the confidence of every
copy
cat
artist and finally
the fingers twitch to know
every tin cup
now plastic
now paper, now
empty,
cool classic and
ultimately disposable.

not a judge of augur

1.

looking at
your letters
i thought
about
you
- traveling
i then thought,
dreams
must be
the map to work,
work is the
dream come true
the golden
axle
that
bends under its
own
weight-

2.

near a
cannery
plush
with
guts, a dance hall
of gills
reigns,
a cat
that
scrapes at the
moon-
the festival door,
waiting
on the bone shoot,
the
ghost leaver...

(2a.)

the
surf
pierced by the
sting
of
new new
night blue and
if a word was
purple
tonight
it would be filled
to
the
plastic edge with
recyclable
cans,
no paper,
pure aluminum,
a
blue so pure it is a sea
a swan a lake that
disappears
as it
perpetuates a basic map
of the land.