Some poems from France I

Taking a shit

the first thing I did
as an

American in
France

Stop and Go

Hang my head until it drags my bones

          I watch the skin peel from skin in my finger tips
I don't feel it go

          --it smells like a dentist's office here--with all the
white light--

          I relax my bowels to the sound of
approaching footsteps

The greatest shit

The greatest shit I ever took.
Elk City.
Oklahoma.
Motel 6.
off I-40.
on E State Highway 66.
couldn't find a bar
coffee at Loves.
walked up and down.
road.
too many of us.
had to sneak in.
one at a time.
Joe/Tommy, first.
Gabow vitaly me.
stray cats.
macks without cabs.
starry puddles.
slant face.
back door open.
I could barely make stairs.
inside.
close the door.
body relaxed.
we shouldn't be hittin' so many hotels
left it all and the coffee in the toilet.
never wanted to go home.

slim picking

Slow to favor
my facial recognition
dream
I want them to know
where I shit and fall
drunken on poisons
mind-body-eyes-dull;

aging pictures sunken
caricatures guide me
to lost realities

time verified dream snatching
portrait painting anachronism--
choice, like choice, is the
best example of a waste

I'd rather it be decided.

Just a few seconds ago...

I shit
the coffee shit
it was done in a few seconds
I read Bukowski
the poem was long "Column"
I sat and finished it
I was happy

Bryzgalov and the Merry band of Flyers

How bad does a team gotta
be to make you write a poem about them?
as bad as the Flyers are playing right now
is enough, and fans scream kill Bryzy! Trade
Bryzy! The team doesn't trust him! But,
you ever play hockey before? and you
realize the goalie has to trust a team,
I wouldn't they don't back check,
they give up space, get taken in the d zone,
they're terrible and it was building slowly, idiots
just don't see it, can't see it now, yeah sure
he could make some saves, but when
he doesn't know where they're coming
from or how, it's not that easy, just like
it isn't being the gum Laviolette chews while
he can't figure out what the hell is going on out
there on the ice

Considering

I'd consider myself a poet
if it
killed me,
if I died drunken on my own
words in the gray street
without help,
I'd consider myself a poet
if not one single person
read
a word I've ever wrote