the sieve and the sand

a few years back i learned to vomit
and over time i understood

should you pay attention to what you
put in you’ll soon better understand

just what exactly you’ll get out. and
lately i’ve learned to bring up blues

and greens. yellows are natural but
deep hue purples take focus, skill.

lately i cannot vomit enough. just to
stand back and see what’s come up

sometimes it’s poetry and sometimes
just prose but almost never a short

story. a few years back when i learned
to vomit, i never imagined the love

affair she and i would have. my need
to eat slowly decreasing as my own

vomit becomes my inspiration for more

There’s a crick in my neck
reminds me
of all the cricks in my neck
I’ve had before
but I’ll still sleep on that pillow
because it’s still my favorite pillow
and I’ll sleep on your shitty couch
(I swore I’d never sleep on it
again)

and when
you wake me
accidentally
I’ll let it slide this time
just like I let it slide last time
just like it slides most every time
and I’ll be cussing at your couch
and rubbing out this damn
crick in my neck

body aches
enough to stop the
music? No
hardly enough to
stop the musician

education built my confidence
in things like failing and dashed
dreams
rejection letters from major
and then minor publications
hung on my wall in defiant pride

one editor called me and effer
in not such nice terms.

i learned just then a masters
does basically nothing for me
unless it leads to a degree of
cow patties
Piled higher and Deeper (PhD)
at which point it matters
not whether i’ve been published
i’m officially qualified to brainwash
you in the same manner i was
treated

welcome to undergraduate hazing
as soon as i’m tenured i’ll be a master
hazer removing your brains and
giving you heavy hopes
so when you dash them on the cliffs
of desire (you’re writing sucks by the way)
they’ll at least leave a legacy of
scarred bluffs, cliffs, and perhaps
sticker laden walls of shameful rejection
letters

How am I to speak your name
when I can’t even spell it
and this always ends up just the same
as every other silly game
and barring fortune, luck or fame
I’m sure I’ll lose everything on it.

But it’s Ashley,
right?

disciples. love one another.
all people know by this
that you are for my will
if you have love

I know three fellas
aint got a line to walk
aint got a line to talk
neither
but they’re walkin’
and talkin’
and damned if they ain’t
brand knew! But they are
and they’re fakin’ it
and they’re makin’ it
and baby, that’s just fine
‘cuz some fellas just aint
meant to talk no stuff
or walk no lines

i knew that you wantedneededyearned to talk
but i had to go
and no entreaty could sway me from my course,
so you didn’t entreat,
nor did you cry,
but sitting there calmly,
in that moment i watched you die;
and what was you before
became cloaked in stone
and in statuesque grandeur
you calmly watched me walk away
because i had to go.

my nights were mostly sleepless
till hours after bedtime
where pictures of my third grade
baseball team slowly turned into
typewriters (something that at the time
terrified me) and fear was something
i grew used to. staying up nights
hoping tonight my door would be
left open to see down the brown
carpeted hallway to the light at the end
and hope to hear the voices of my parents
talking to soothe me to sleep
begging myself to pass out before
the voices stopped and i was left in silence

now i want you so badly not to fear
a thing at night or during the day i want
to protect you from anything you might
ever wonder is dangerous
to know your father is here and ready
to keep you safe. i want myself to feel safe
to call out to the One who really is in charge
and sing songs which bring comfort
in your ear as they remind me i’ve no reason
to be afraid even when your mother is
gone and we’re alone in a house much too
big for two people (really just one and a
munchkin). where the brown carpet is gone
but the lights stay on and i’ve no one to talk
with to soothe you to sleep so you scream
and you scream and i hold you and hold you
again knowing the longer i hold you the more
tired you become and the less likely to sleep
and you’ll have to scream yourself to sleep tonight
something i’m not wholly against as long
as your screaming from disobedience, or just
a lack of desire to sleep

but if you’re afraid i’m here for you
though you wont know these words till you’re
old enough to no longer fear the dark
and your sister will be there with you to hold
to hug and to read to.

and just so you know typewriters are really
wonderful things you should never fear
for anything which makes words is created
in the image of God. he used words after all
to make you and me and the sun above us we
never see.

There is no final destination
on this itinerary
but if the
choice is
be tween
marking an X on the map
and riding someone else’s bus
why friend,
I think I’ll joyride
for the rest of my long life

or perhaps the other day,
what does it matter anymore,

and you looked my way
only to then look away
shaking your head in disgust;

but what did i care
i’d made my choice,
already moving to the door;

so turning away
there was one thing to say:
what does it matter anymore.

beach reading
sun shining
tsunamied

I watched you fall
from the top of the world
to the bottom of the barrel

I heard the wet thud
as you struck the wooden floor
your body splayed out
and there you lay

Then blood started pooling
at the bass of your haired cranium
your fingers curled forevermore
and there you lay

I watched you fall
from the top of the world
to the bottom of the barrel
and I didn’t try to catch you

completely full,
but not coming out,
clogged by the very substance
that gives it meaning;

and every now and then,
i hear it rumble within
as another tray is broken,
falling into the bin.

and all there is to do
is go to the source,
opening the cover,
forcefully taking my desire.

Your mother would be proud, you know?
I told her all about it
and she’s written back a letter
said she’s on a train this weekend
gonna see you on a Sunday
with a bonnet and a bible
and she’ll take you out to dinner
while her gaze grabs you like fingers
and she’ll ask you all about her
when you’ll bring her ’round to meet
and you’ll say all the pretty things
you know she wants to hear
but all the while she’s just staring
her eyes grabbing you like fingers
and you’ll swear you think you’re finished
as she’ll catch another train
and just as soon as she came in
she’s out of town and life again
and she’s really very proud, you know?

grey grass
mere nuclear wasteland
they call it a holiday
and go outside
bundled

roaming the streets in their pajamas
as though sleep walking
stepping over trash
feces
everything but others
as the dead are swiftly swept
from the streets

they call it a holiday

beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
he sits, staring, waiting for you to
move: to have the wrong facial exp
ression, to be sea
ted in the wrong position (weight
on the wrong ass
cheek)
and then he stands up, slowly, noticing
your criminality.
casually, he walks at any speed
he pleases, and begins the triviailty
of conversation which ends always
in the same way:
cement box.
he laughs about the game last night
with his friends while you sit in
the back of his car, which is always on,
losing your wits and your “savings”
and your life.
he shines his flashlights in your eyes,
inquiring into your soul with his long
stone gaze,
slowly paging through your mind and
your posessions, taking interest in
what he pleases,
fining you for what displeases
the fools on capitol hill,
laughing indescriminately at your
last free breaths.

yes,
beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
his pupils work tirelessly on the
unsuspecting public,
just trying to get where they’re going
to do what they want
often times hurting no-one but them
selves,
maybe the futures of their future
children,
and he wants to steal your vitality
to fill his quota. as long as he is here,
he figures,
he might as well get you if he can.
he might as well get the ones that no
one wants to see gotten and not get
the ones everyone would like to see
gotten due to lack of evidence/effort.

beneath the skull of a cop is stone,
and in the place where his heart
should be there is a fucking piggy-bank.
oink
oink.