"night #6"

crickets wring their song
through night's heat
squeezing crooked harmonies
around desperate trees.

aside from that
the air is still...
and hot...
and weak...
ripping at the 
hollow
that was staggered breath.

deprivation
crawls through my veins... --
the stars quite simply
too close...

"alone and..."

in the stillness
there interposed
a fly
on the wall
opposite my bed;
a wall empty
and white
screaming of
nothingness
and i imagine
myself
broken & bent
in his eyes
a multitude
in that void
wandering
in the vacant
silence
that is that fly
twitching
with exhaustion
wanting nothing more
than sleep...


                          6/3/11

untitled

bent
fractured
broken & twisted,
light hangs
from naked fingers
like promises
from a politician.

the storm
has shuffled on
leaving the sun
a little breath
before my rum
chases him
through the trees.

i don't like him,
the sun;

he's too damn happy...

crow haiku

your shadow is swift,
falling drunkard through thunder,
a mere grazing touch.


*     *     *


walking through the grass,
awkward obsidian clown,
worms laugh at your gait.


*     *     *


black simplicity,
strutting murder in the air,
and then the silence...


*     *     *


voices carry death
and dip below horizon...
ice creaks in sweet rum.


*     *     *


in the noon day sun
your iridescent feathers -
oil on virgin snow.

"maybe he wasn't even there..."

but i think

he was…

wooden man

in the kudzu

left to rot

in the rain

silly

him standing

like that

leaves

choking what

would be breath

i admire

his dexterity…

his absurd serenity…

his inability

to cry…

tears kissing

my lips…

the rain…

falling like shrapnel…

the wounded

not yet conscious

to the roots

loosening their grip

on the soil…

"a call to arms"

in the quiet, still heat…

in the sobering darkness…

let’s get stupid drunk

on each other’s flesh.

let’s wallow naked

in midnight grass

drenched in moonlight

and breath.

let’s carve poetry

across the sky

with our tongues

cursing the puritans

and their damned

dry, shriveled genitalia.

let’s coyote fuck

under the stars,

washed in the wine

if immaculacy.

let’s drink this night dry-

its heat –

its quiet –

and pour ourselves

into morning,

refreshed against

horizon’s holocaust,

flesh against flesh…

soul against soul…

and savor what we have

before sobriety

marches once again.

"i'm a man!"

pissing in the shower

makes me feel like

a man.

i don’t hunt –

i don’t football –

i don’t transmission –

but relieving myself

while cleansing

is barbaric…

neanderthal…

MANLY…

as long as i have

my rose scented body wash

to cover the stink.

"conquest"

i am no mere

pioneer

regarding the exploration

of the landscape

that is your body.

i am a barbarian,

primitive and savage,

taking what i want

with no regard for others;

with no questions answered

nor asked;

with no crack nor crevice

un-violated,

leaving it steaming

in the moonlight

with the fires of conquest.

"street view"

no air was moving.

i caught a glimpse

of white cotton

as she adjusted

her shorts.

oblivious.

rain dropped

somberly across the pavement.

i imagined her

fingering the hem

of those panties,

pulling them aside,

allowing me a quick glimpse

of the pink delicate,

and no more.

that’d be enough.

(of course i’m

a dirty old man.

the crows have been

singing that for years,

you’ve simply never allowed

yourself to listen.)

about the time

my last beer arrived,

her boyfriend drove up

and pulled her, laughing,

across his lap.

a Buddha smile

crept onto my lips

as i watched them

speed away

in the rain,

the image of soft cotton

breathing new life

into the decrepit soul

of this pen.