Mr. Pierce was a
Mechanic. In the
Second Big War, he
worked on tanks and
trucks and jeeps
and other things
that mechanics might
work on in war.

His hands were sort
of a dark gray,
from all the grease
and oil and years
and years, his
fingernails the only
clean spot on those
hard used, elder
hands. Oh, they’ll
never come clean.

He killed a man,
he said. Those
dirtied hands had
pulled the trigger
on a rifle, aimed
at some poor fool
with a different
patch on his
uniform.

He washes his hands
after every meal,
and he doesn’t
even change his own
oil these days,
but his hands
are still that gray
color, and oh,
they’ll never come
clean.

He says that blood
and oil run a
different sort
of color, but
it all stains the
hands the same.
He washes his hands
after every meal,
but oh, they’ll
never come clean.

Let me be your chemo

Would you prance, if I asked you to prance?
Would you have fun, and never smoke crack?
Would you fly, if you saw me flying?
And would you save my mole, tonight?

I can be your chemo, baby
I can make chronic pain stay
I will suck at you you forever
I can take your breasts away

in modest times
we wore our faces
full of beards we could
not bear to bare in public
before audiences of
both men and the ladies
to whom we preached
the awkward lies
of global cooling
to soothe those of
weaker consciousness
the ones our mothers
told us we should include
on the playground
but despite our good
intentions we dared not
approach their leper
like social status

back in the
d
a
y
we used to ride the dead
leaves through the hellish
michigan winters
all shady hazed and listless

and my blue car was nervous
around college girls

we made it out like kings of
a shit-hill-made-of-gold,
crowns reflected in our
bloodshot eyes

and we forgot all the names
of the days and the places

now, between stints in county
lock-up and governmental fines
we breath in deep and waste
our time waiting;
because they always catch the
fire but they never catch the
fireworks.

it likes you
and it’s breathing
it can smell you on his
breath and now
it hungers
yes, it wants to feed
on you
oh, god, it’s
breathing

and you’re running
but escape is not an
option when it likes you
like it does
and it can smell you
on his breath and
it is hungry

like every monster
always is

i dream someday
due to lack of recognition
(in my own lifetime)
my poems will be dug up
perhaps by some digital
archaeologist
finding pages ruffled
and singed from burning
stanzas lost through the years

perhaps like emily
they will find
my poetry worth only
a glance
to be moved on,
forgotten

and while i’ll never be
recognized for great words
for one small moment
perhaps

they’ll know i knew just
how poorly i wrote
and forever remember me
as awkwardly
painfully
self-aware

dress it up proper
take tums so it wont fart
stuff it, pad it, use botox
teach them to call it art

in hills like these
we wait for sun
to semi-peak through clouds

knowing now
these lost people
dwell in mud-built homes

we come and play
where they work
joy fills us in their fields

the sweat on their brow
the same as ours
though brought through toil not cheer

today i came
i saw i conquered
and left you here to farm

i hope someday
that i’ll be back
and bring you love you cant ignore

I stand inside your
halls of dirt and wonder
at the processes which
bring me here

All the cash is gone
three states away and
yet, here I stand, among
hollowed pockets in these
unhallowed halls of dirt

the stench is thick but
I cover my face with
a fresh, clean T-shirt
(poly-cotton blend)
as I stand in your lines
and I count the ways
that every fucking dime
I leave with you could
drop so easily in a Coinstar
machine, or slide quite
neatly in to my piggy bank

But no,
you’ll take care
of the banking
for me

Here in your halls of
dirt, I stand and wonder,
but I smile. After unfolding
bills and signing paper
I will go back to my shitty car
and drive it to a basement show
and then I’ll play some guitar
and you know, you can’t
charge me in guitars. The rest
is only money. Dig deep
the pit you put it in,
here in your halls of dirt

it’s time to man up
wake up early
hit the road
throw your bikes in the back and
head for better weather
hills
dirt
mud for our faces

it’s time to man up
mount up
and head out

ride for hours
and hope we can get back

Kansas City
boy I’d love to shuffle down in
Kansas City
play them heartland blues and
shit, I’ll maybe hit a
jam or two

yeah,
Kansas City
that’s just where I’d want to be
where Bird still Lives
and thrills are cheap and music’s free
and Kansas City bound
I think I’ll be

winter makes life hard sometimes
the temperature drops daily
as coal dust falls silting the ground
in grey
black.
and drops and drops
reminding you there are forces bigger
than your work day
and drops and drops
you pile on more clothes and fight
smaller colds
and drops

till every man made blemish
is covered in virgin white
every sin forgotten

in snow.