or be foe, i mean.

honk honk, the nether
and a a a a a porc-u-pined
wiffin' the attic-tic-tic-tic to
morrow for...

oh. to sleep. to never
be nevewhere ornwhere. or
where? their is quite. white
quiet on mohnaire.

wallow wallow wildem smears
have swilt a loonly loo-loo
that's spooling circles to-
tu-tu. and too two'd

furrowld ohl'd mysite or... ur
foor the flurin' insky dur'n
time to time for time. i'me
not myne signed tis hind.

there are things i used to say that i don't say anymore

the loose sausage,
cream of mushroom and milk.

mash,
stir on open flame.

I am in the corner
on the floor

stroking Colby’s black mange;
looking out doors.

mid-morning breakfast
with beer is stark

quivering on the edge
of a cymbal crash.

I know this is not
the way.

not officially.
but mathematics

are only parallel
figures

and sums no longer
equal

crisp leaves that float
gingerly to slick blades.

there are things i used to say

there are things I used to say
that I don’t say anymore



the loose sausage,
cream of mushroom and milk.

mash,
stir on open flame.

I am in the corner
on the floor

stroking Colby’s black mange;
looking out doors.

mid-morning breakfast
with beer is stark

quivering on the edge
of a cymbal crash.

I know this is not
the way.

not officially.
but mathematics

are only parallel
figures

and sums no longer
equal

crisp leaves that float
gingerly to slick blades.

I don't believe that one should devote his life to morbid self attention,
I believe that someone should become a person like other people.

vapor-ridden hoot'n candies made from morning owls.

-oh. is that so?

a nod in the dying mellow.

two figures, a shadow

and silence.
-where do you think we are?
and his voice

like the bark

hasn't.

nor will it mulch

the wilted daisies

melting in the cornhusk vase

on a table at dusk

with two figures, their stares,

a hunch.
-mother, we've eloped.

and an
-oh...?
that pauses until dawn.

poem for never

The color of my grandmother is purple. On the evening of her hours, she will stare, full, with eyes wide into the nightlight at her bedside. She will sing, then, with broken glass at her slippers soaked in soaked in warm water. She will sing until we never see her. She will, there, disappear forever.

poems for fall #1

I like the poems of the baseball games, and I like the sound of your lips with my name when we’re walking from the crowds in the early evening to a quiet street with a cold breeze with brittle leaves and cool concrete that contrasts with the warm of your arms and cheek around my arm and body.

ninety words per minute in a moment

i re
move
d my
fin
ger an
d lear
ned
how t
o sew.

if only eyes would stung her

my bellow in a dyeing sun
That leafs your skin in glinting solder,
bronzen meadows and a pistil

you droop too.
like the bumblebee in
this evening of a fill...

a kite that claims my
shyne, the sun, your eyes
on my mind

or the light that's leaving
leafing left like our
sight on the inside

of our eyes. the seas of
yesterday's previous and my insides
opened on you tomorrow

hellocho-cho-cho-----

well… well… well…
wells. wells. there are wells all over my yeards;
in the grasses, bellows them and furthere. everywhere
you look, you’ll fine…

well, you’ll find a lot of evidence.
and you’ll find a lot of mud and yellow. dry
grass and last autumn,
my hands and a shovel.

OHIO

red red flint in the clay
smooth as a pistol move

as yellow dress in a cavity
as yellow dress on her
breakfasting death

arrows and scissors
off ohio ridge
its array of colors quarried
fit to no end

who will swathe the wound
no-one moves to wound

no-one moves to stand

stepping light

in the bleak cold window of winter
the iced over glass bristles
in veins of vessels

the snowball strikes carpet,
flakes gleaming from the boy’s
blue mitten, quick to cover

mouth to clench and sprint,
ice veins snap and drain,
snowball seeps in gnarls

of stiffening rug.
in the brisk
she picks up the glass, ice

specks that shimmer and drop
wetting, an infiltration, no
a drip that plunks deep

in eardrum, the snowball
plucked and thrown back
as the chill

down her fingers, slides,
over the back handed
crook of wrist.