Poetry Collection V

your hand is shaking,

but nerves are okay,

because this day,

will still break, and there’s

always time, again

But none like this.








































oh jesus I have nothing more to say

when you’re already asleep

that I could take, you up in my arms?

and you could wake up,

if my voice were a little sharper,

if I, could make you, pain.

































you are,

just an ugly turn,

of shoulder skin during the dawn:

I could turn it away,

two times dark,

I could keep

myself Together.

































Pack yourself back up
Matchstick man
The wind is colder than
you thought

Ugly hands can feel
in the storm
Troubled pulses can’t hide
their shape




































tumbling for words -

gets stuck


fumbling in morning -

is sick


The sky can't be

all this blue


And all these

people, moving

Poetry Collection IV

after - rain
the streets have not
yet healed
to any
sealing of fricitives
the air - green
wet gasps of
thaT last breath

before sleep:
trying to stay
foot-touched
heart-held
before the rising
heavy
Earth -








































The moon was not/ forever tragedy

In flowers she would have been three (he slept
one as the sunflower you’ll find her
nestled in the creaking darkness of seeds
hinges of shadows' cloud dust or more and
two an orchid of violet fervor (his face, framed in the hills and wet grasses)
skin the flavor of honey blood find shade
in the spiraling darkness behold
her beauty is the legend of
Pagans the blood they heaved as
ballet grace and the drunken love
water for
purity she is her
own legend as calm
seaborn typhoon
or cool summer grass
midnight you’ll find
three flowers
and as she falls in love the tide shivers
and her love
shepherd of men but only as he
reminds us of our mortality
she passed above
his flock for years
and finally
jammed him to Paradise begging forever
(her father smiled)
his life her breath
in a box
a life no less
a life of love
and grasshopper legs












imagine
frameless girl of pixie breasts
daisy swarmed in brushes of her own nakedness
Barefoot seltzer she is
always summer
the brush of a cloud
(Here we pray
knees in the wet mud - volley
deprizal of our
volvulus words
Struck her where a rape they say jammed
volcanic
his winter into
against
(break)
Hands that could not hold on fumbled
the slippery heating darkness when the greatest
of heroes the volt of war pinned
girls against the Walls of Troy
(You cannot pray for nature/ alone in the mud
She ate the DArk Fruit
struck babbled her eyes could
not maintain the image
and the fruit burst between her
teeth drawing
her lips and
summer’s
whet
limp




















Ice is the second most solid container as of
course you know the stories of
the north young child young
men voyaging writing poems for
ice princesses they dreamt of your
father was such a man my child his
eyes like a fox's they
wore long cloaks and braced
their bodies to the ice's heart its womb their
fires were more for the love of smoke
than the invisibility they ate
they never tasted for
north is quite like a sea a garden of
waves caught fumbling in some crystal moment
of loved hating thought caught at
the moment when everything is packed under
only some men have ever returned the story
is an old one for north during days
of darkness days of sheer sparkle either
stellar or the hope the men planted in the
snow and caves and white like thumbnail corn their
eyes would change color you
see deep shades of red some of
leapordal orange aurorial and the ice
worked like slippery magic

Try not to let the nightmares in my
child





















In April
broken heat
stinks rising from
the tool-wise
pavement up-up
by a rounding deluge
to swallow wind
pregnant as wine
blushing
is this air: In April
sounds drop a
ring for lush
garden green hill scenes
pastel picking bare, no -
this is fog
eyes to be piked on
newly found
hollow nasals
and gritty
smelling glands
night lamps share no
fog above the
breeding April earth
My red tongue is earth-wet
and pelvis, vorpal-dead -
even feet are
sloppy in April

Poetry Collection III

go the way of gonzo




why the’ell not
blast out
your brains

on such
a melanch’ly
day?

granted the
Aspen sky
is crisp

Loathing
Fear, loathing
Fear.




























I've gotten you
out of my body

It's only blood
and muscle now

you're
just a
tremor in the bones

a slip between
tongue and lip

just a thought
my skin can't locate

But you should
write back all the same





























I'm in control girl -
I choose to wait,

I could have gotten
drunk hours ago.

no I don't notice -
the days as they pass,

But I knew
you'd ask


































my sock is lost
somewhere in your bed

the coffee tastes stronger cold

you put on your jeans
casual quick

so that’s how the rub can go




My sock is Gone -

Somewhere in your
sheets -

The coffee tastes stronger cold

You put on your jeans

casual-quick

we'll lose more

where that -

came from!



















Oh I speak to you again,
I couldn’t turn it down,
we’ll sit across tables,
candle-dy don’t,
playing on down the smiles,

Oh I could ask you home
after many a drink,
tumbling up whiskey even,
not a kiss,

try it and
we’ll see
what I say.































for Daniel Yuvachev
Of course I’m not sure if I believe
in such a tale but here it goes
there once was a writer who lived by a bridge
She lived by a bridge in England-town
Wrote about cats, wrote about God
A steady six weekends a year

Then one fine England-town day
something strange happened
and only this we know
she did not write she did not write
not about cats, not about God

Five years did pass and again she sat
to write a poem for dear dear Beth
justly returned from holiday she
had been a tourist Anyhow
the writer sat the writer thought
the writer baked strawberry muffins
and the most extraordinary of extraordinary then occurred

Nothing
She had nothing to write nothing to write
Not a single thought upon her head
Not a single thought worthy of God
Worthy of dear Beth

So warn you writers, sufferers all don’t
go like the woman in our tale
write write burn with your God
Write write love your kittens
love your youth

Poetry Collection II

Wipe that smiling off your face,

I'm more to blame than you,

Yes your body is hungry-svelte,

But I supply the gaze.











































If I can’t rub myself out


against you -


then I'll nick


at the itch -


raise up the skin in nervenumb


swelling -


at least feel something new.

























god I could kill you,

if you’d give me a chance,

red lips across your drink,

this is my mask,

just Waverly Worn,

sniffing on out

of the Dark.
































Tempt the Fates, If that’s As loud As you can Speak, Even if No one Reads it, Child



The expression – on – your face –
The moisture – on – your lip –
Such a day –
is only a day –
for you.

All will be forgiven –
because all will be forgotten.



































Just can't get under the skin
Under the skin:

You've shaved your legs
Two-times tart

I know the whole picture
Been in and in

So why these eyelash battings
Whore

I've seen it before
And seen it before

What makes you think I'm
In such pain?

























We walked like strangers

The straight concentration and she found my skin
holding something under breath


was love she said
was love she said

walked heavily
like paste

Poetry Collection I

Stuffed with Blue

Thumbs the - Sun

Pollen - grits it Raw

Nails on Head -

And jars still Closing

Counting Away -

The Sun




































Dead in - summer Hurts the Sun –

all this Streaming - deaf on Grass –

Hedges - of distraught - Attention –

and - these People walking – Home









































If distance is a trick – of what you expect it to be

And Proximity has no texture
Other than what – you've felt – Before

And all you have at death – are the stories
You've always told yourself – to fall asleep

And money is worth only – what you give
– to protect it – as it determines – the scales

And I have changed and you have changed

I'll take my little chances – with no great cause

And leave you –
The pressure of such – little words































The potions in my brain are
swollen, as our attention keeps us
humble, the quiet day begins without
promise, and ends with the future
adorned in the bells and sun dresses
of this prison –
we laugh, cautious





































you’ll pay tomorrow / my friend



\It was a
nervous jerk –
and so:
unfulfilling,
I’m still all nerves.
finger-tips and
heart valves.
The rocking of
sufficient breathing.
And I flit with the
desk lamp to melt
away those lines of light
across the ceiling.
This is it: convergence
of bloods, dissonance,
should there exist
such a word –

where is all of this
space when I’m
on trains? or
choosing breakfast
cereal?

All of those pens,
clips, jagged gleams
of metal on the desk –
Oh would they fit nicely
right back
behind my eyes!








from just moments after, when you have your breath back, if only to write a little something here or there



and – in these moments
of grinding – affectation
your head and your heart
an – awkward system

later there will – be time
to read this to pieces
what you could have waged –
into those little blue eyes

The moment is – escaping
the present: giving it the slip
and pegging reaction – on
dark foreign momentum

is the trick – against your
bones is the – thick against
where – your heart – should be
no, you’re wrong: there is time –

she said