Sunday, January 21, 2018

A good day to die (signifying nothing)

Jim Harrison creeping bridges for suicides
Quentin Compson-like decomposed bodies
No teeth left to relate the skull's former contents
Enough that they both wore peacoats
Talked to themselves
Cursed the snowflakes of the northeast
Killed their mind
Alcohol drugs maybe failure
Father's lies about railroad tracks
Mothers sending  children to farthest faraway states
The emergent death of the national park
Green things become gray
Under those obsessed bridges
Become markers
Tourist traps
Pauper's graves

Saturday, January 20, 2018

VA DMV: A classic picture show

When looking out at the rainbow
That rainbow which descends on bleak buildings
Those buildings branded DMV
To wonder at all the sorted numbers called lives mingling
To wonder at all the photos taken of their static faces
It's hard to imagine that a single thought by humanity has ever been profound 
Borne with grand design
It's hard to envision the assembled parts
aligned in each matching chair
as anything other than rats building their own cages

Thursday, January 18, 2018


they've left the world

         all of them


         they haven't made a sound

there used to be a continued hum

      recurrent in the background

now I am alone

       they've taken the voice with them


      comforts like a window pane

tho it is only glass

      I can also break

like a sheet protects the body

     from phantom chill

I was alone

       where they had gone


      we'll never know

they can't tell us what they've heard

Wednesday, January 10, 2018


through claw marks
     a frothy white piss

                                     on my window shield
fingers draw rifts in the snow

the blood wheel between my nails
                                                        turns kidney pink
like a body of stone
     salt lingers above the freezing line

when the pavement gives out the road sinks like footprints

leaves a fleeting trail
                                   like a baby's first words
for the hunters to follow

Tuesday, January 9, 2018


ghosts stalk my cat in the dark corners of our apartment

every once in a while he'll notice them

with widening pupils he focuses on the void just over my shoulder
where phantoms lurk like the deep circles under my eyes

bruised shadows hidden behind a pane of glass

Wednesday, January 3, 2018


grown deep into ground
vision moved like a glacier
over the boulder field
bringing with it an old ice age

with every glare
the rocks bore witness
to my deliberate advance
my existence
they believed in it
as movement

it was this or the sky

which was deeper blue?

stones that crumbled to my endless breath

death crawled on its belly across the earth

the very cliff-faces were novels
to my impending glory
I drank heavy from the history of the world
growing into my own tomb
god pulled galaxies out of my frozen maw
chewing time
like a billion years worth of dying stars

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Ocean City, IN

in indiana i warned her about the lake effect

she said, the title waves are toothpaste blue,
          they crash & froth on the shore

the water came from somewhere beyond the beach,
          but there shouldn't be an ocean

from the driver's side window
          empty fields were replaced with motel front doors
the wind was not strong enough to close their eyes

our tires left fault lines in the sand

Saturday, December 30, 2017


There's this          poem

On my bathroom wall

It only comes to me in the afternoons

When the sun slants in

Stretching the figure of a glass flower vase
Dashing its heart against the white         wall

Looking like ashes

Smeared by my stare

Friday, December 29, 2017



A quick Google search

     Returns my name to me
Like a spider crawls across my arm

When I know it's there

     I watch intently

In harmony.


When it drops beside me on its Web

     The results contain the text of many souls
Harboring my name

None of which I recognize
     As me.

Wednesday, December 20, 2017


If you close your eyes
     the sound of a microfilm reel
     being rewound was the sound
     that began like a dream
the cancer that followed me
     was that sound and it floated
     alongside me as a physical perspective
     from which I watched outside
watching a someone that wasn't me
     that had been designated as me
     the cancer following him around
     tho I could only imagine what it looked like
I couldn't see it or I was inside it
     or it was just out of reach needing someone
     to speed up the reel
the film beginning to click and snap
     as if it was splitting in two
     the wheels ignored kept spinning
     waiting for me to die but I didn't
I just looked up at me seeing through me
     the perspective of me seeing through the body
     I closed my eyes his eyes it had eyes
     and he sighed

Monday, December 11, 2017

The Poem

into the morning
     a gleam of rising run
listening to disparate lines
          in the spotlight
a monitor light bleeds
     on the stage
a rhythm of breathing bodies
          the humming metallic lung of cars
     their dreaming
moves along bedroom walls
          into the horizon
that lingers on the periphery
          of thrift store landscapes
     the life of anonymous painters
retching on spoiled bits
   of rotted fame


a creek drainage

                           down the hill
below the development of
snow covered plastic houses
whose assembly line windows
watch the continuing storm through
clones of door clones of space
clones of lives

               rests stagnant in milky orange night

recedes as the oppressive aura of the street lamp grows
like a ship's light winking out of the abyss

Friday, December 8, 2017

Better Times

inside the trailer it was warm
you poured beer into cold glasses
the beer was frothy and golden
                                         when you left
                                            you were like the echo of
                                       the last beer you had
you collected my tab
and took it with you
                into the West Virginia


along the ridge line
above the brown field
                                     some feelings aren't like cement
               crumbling foundations
they're stapled to the outline
like christmas lights
                                             watching over
          as the highway goes from gray to black

the three crosses
                               the hills spewing coal
into the future
the glittering light
         and november skulls with snow
for their eyes

Monday, November 27, 2017

a tree was born to grow old & strong,
to become the beginning of a tragedy
that ends as stacks of colorless paper,
staked through the heart and pinned to cubical walls,
office numbers printed on its multitude of lifeless faces