i coughed sinserity
sensirity
sincerity
into the owls deep
and rough neck.
with a smallish and
childlike hoot
he gathered his wings
and drew me in.

1.)
i wish i could lay in the mud
of an elephant's back and
know that the sun can reach me through
these eight layers
of skin-
but
when i want a plateful of
reflection
those oak ears
will lay down rest
upon me.




2.)
carry on your back
the weight of a meal and
get lost in the grove near the fountain.
my childhood was filled to
it's obscene brim with
metallic tastes;
nails in my mouth,
nickels rubbed softly across my cheeks,
wresting tin over the bridge
of my face.
the water carried iron into my veins
and i felt my supernatural image
dine on the filings from
the workman's bench.

I made a little symbol
for music on my palm.
I gave a copper penny
to the conductor in
Phoenix, he came
back to my room and he
slipped off his boots.
The cat prowls only
because it anxiously waits
for its lover to
come home.

Above, floating in the white, is the cover of my new book of poems and ...writing... that will be coming out in November.

Casper white and
with no body of work to pull from,
strawberried by the looming
cast off from her jersey
dress; my best features are
still my aches.

be still and quiet,
twig baby. i have made
requests that they come
and piece you into their
family. they come calling at odd hours
looking for a body to
imprint their ways. be still
and be cautious, i have made claims that mad men
soak dishes in. it is a dark water,
but no darker
than what you have bled in.

i have shocked the tree into birth.
you can just sit back and watch,
the leaves fall and become the
parking lots of snails below.
they are so clean,
no salt,
no terror.

1.) leaning in for a kiss,
i can taste the black pepper
in the red sand. what will i make
for dinner?

2.) i was more cautious when i found
that it was the hunting
and not the gutting that i despised
the most. i watched a slim button-buck
cock it's head in horror, this is the war
against the Pandavas he says,
i do not pause. i wonder who he will be
when he is human.

3.)
catholic nature tells us
that we are always unforgiven except
THEN;
little hands are better baked in the sun,
little pencil loaves of bread
unbought sticks
the twigs,
the mercy, oh
it refills.

at noon,
oh and within the worst thoughts possible
i come to myself in a dream,
asleep and aching on the couch,
now i have known the madness and the
callous causeway of
the single man,
i went through this world
fucking
and burning with gasoline and
with the guise of some
false-hearted lover i came
false-clean,
but now,
gaffed like the tape
of a work site,
melting in the sun,
turning black with the hand-mark of
subway railings,
i see my faults and
my funs.
It runs out,
the gas,
and the engine clips and corks,
what would i give
to have this rest stop
yeaaaaaars ago,
knowing the mileage of the
road.

if not for the

wet earth and oh,

how it was that one evening,

moons ago-

moons, i say,

i would not be lengthwise

a soft bug built from the hard clay:

winter water

wilderness and

all the Y's between.