like the bitten bowl of
the forgotten cabbage tear,
all gone by the side of the road. dust
blowing onto the lavender leaf
coughs let loose but only
into the wind through the passenger window.
i miss your face, and i never thought that
my teachers would pass before me. long gone are the days
of whimsy says i, we have a new path now and the
stones are all too rough to navigate.
it is hard for me to see you
as dead. your hands did wonders for the aches of
old Buffalo and you spoke things you meant.
at least in death, we believe everything you said.

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i edited this out. sorry. shouldnt have ranted on here.

This is a 'failed poem' from within my old hard drive-

I don't want to be the rain
that falls wrong against the
lip of the bad girl's cap.
Her fit dress gets messed in
the wind and I get rosey/rosie/rosy cheeked
by glassy stares from dry-paper
schoolgirls who wait patiently,
profoundly, with the thunder
of a wind-tossed skirt
among the yew line and cry out loud
into devices their worries and whimsy
and whatevers.
All I want is a soft place for
the next ten years. I want to never feel
gravel along my nail.
I woke up for years alone, purposefully, ( Or so I will lie.)
Drunk often and filled with whatever produce
doesn't melt in an Army Navy satchel: I know
the hunger that fills you when you stumble
in from the cold, November, erect and wanting
with the cold floor and a false relationship
hanging on the words of a judgemental
step-mother. No little lovers,
not any more.

I wish that I could be
with alice. Her mother and the
older man who she rests with
call down to me on sunday mornings
pickled blue with the juniper
sludge and fragrantly belching
out curses towards the sun in
such a way that I am amused at the
potential magic they must posess.
I wish I could be with alice when
on Saturday evenings the television
loses it's podium and reclines gently
behind a drape. Softly sleeping,
a greay burial mask of dust coddling
and puffing on it's cheeks. Her family is
renowned. Reknowned(?) for their worth
For their shadow theater. What we see behind
the blinds when we gawk from the street.
I heard once that her mother,
In the severity of a cold dew-soaked summer dawn,
coughed up a ring of marihuana smoke.
Immediately across the courtyard she waved,
and then with the strokishly perverted weight
of the pope's less-nimble wrists she blew a kiss,
hand covered in a lake of dried semen.
These days it seems, i wish only
for the air that floated above that milky
death and it's sour sweet demands.

I just don't see why you
of all the clodden and cloven
get the best campsite
up here. The desert has been
emptied of our napping
and the waters have gone on
from swimming;
we really are just
so
alone.
Once..... upon a time,
in a distant land of
glass broken in cold water ( you know the danger of this.)
and shivers during a
piss, I came up with a
reasonable solution-
We would dig ourselves a new foundation.
But
'the cinders', they refused to budge.

it is hard to lay
so still along the length of
the dead tree, among the brown
yellow-cat-eyed leaf skeletons and the
"come home soon" of the in walking
dirty clouds.
(maybe a new rain, or an
older soft snow who will lay and dance
and swallow fresh air and then
hold the scent of my excitement
in it. i can roll it with my
pink palms and place it in the freezer.
it will not melt.)
I will begin the trek back towards
daylight soon. when it gets deep and
hungry like this outside,
there is nothing more correct
than to wait it out,
as a caterpillar dressed for the
formal, a caught glance uphill,
watching a young girls legs as they struggle against
gravity. hello skirt, hello and god bless
to the perverted wind.