Monday, September 21, 2009



Rushed there,
in a pocket of the city
or the yelping quiet
of forests,
the boy/girl-ness
has been walking
toward the moons.

I found you
squatting in a patch
of sound,
a servant of highways
and wolves,

the whiskey brother
of a more wild memory.

Surrounded in cornfields
or concrete mesas,
we met weird sisters
and French rappers,
smoked resin out
of dolphin hides,
danced the blood into
our limbs.

Make no effort now,
the quiet has come to
hold and weave
the two-ness
of nature stories,
the dichotomy of

The Gift of Tongues

The Gift of Tongues

Where were the mothers
the day that I found art in her lap,
a universe
of casualties so lovely, so vast?
Remember the cold clouds around her waist,
the angel moments,
calling tongues wrapped around tongues
the trumpets of the devil.
Remember the blue
the vast, unstopping blue
of learning
and find for yourself
the soil of language,
and don’t forget the time before when I was
a sky child,
drinking dust
before the time of art.

Where were the fathers the
day that I found the touches
of flesh on flesh on fabric on flesh
and knew the truth
that was mantled in hedonism?
What ramparts were climbed
that were just beds
to see the heat heat hot
pulse from me, and I ask,
what show of god
glimmered before the peacock
sky to tell the little planets
that they were once only
they were once only
they were once with out
songs and colors?

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Bacchus In The Neighborhood

(A thin veil
between us and the Gods
is lifted by the paws of dogs.)

The heat heat heat
made in the pot-stills of moons on the
lakes of nothing else to do
but think of trashing
the thinking, leaves you
in the summer the summer the heat
bottomed out.

When they play
the ones with the heavy heavy beats
and the still cloudless nights,
you’ll see your own
mom and dad
drinking beers on the porch
listening to Springsteen.

While you
vanish in the bushes
wild at 9 o’ clock, the sky
telling you just how to live,
or stopping the zoo from
running to your arms again
for comfort.

is the party the llamas have waited
all year to spit at.
There is no language for weather.
They know it in
there is not a way to tell about the afternoon,
the tan lines of thighs,
the plastic of air
the hopes of leaves
the wilt of your face in the soaking
sprinkler pool sidewalk glamour show
lemonade stand drama,
the garden planned to meticulously
spill over while on vacation
to other parts of summer,
(cheating on your own fun).

Your face a Bacchus riot,
slamming the dreams down
on the table like coins,
all the while
all the while
screaming that
there is no way to talk about
There is no
speaking of the weather,
the space of time
stretching like a runners leg.

So there is only panting
after each sip,
a tongue lolling out of
each mouth,
trying to howl the gossip
under starry trees
as busted fire hydrants
shamelessly display their relief
in the streets.
A black-out, black-top
world, harbors an
always remembered
Goodbye summer freedom.