It is on the wind and
will arrive first thing
tomorrow afternoon.

Last night I swallowed
my French heritage.
It was everything It could be-
soft murmurs incomprehended;
foreign.
Breathing into me, knowing
I understand.
A dream unbelievable
Hours of my wildest imagination
right before me
at
last.

I have not yet woken up.

i place my words carefully
each in order
so as to construct
my mind.
and i’m finding
she ain’t purdy.

among the purple
blossoms: one
ringed with white.

i’ve a system for filing my brilliance.

as a phrase, paragraph, poem, or book idea passes by my brain
i think “brillaint”
and then forget it.
filed away into my mental box labelled “invisible”.

this way it’s accessable any time i open my “invisible” box.
which is to say — never.
it’s a very difficult box to find.

but once my brilliant idea concerns finding invisible boxes (or boxes merely labelled invisible), and I’m wise enough to not file it away into the same….
well, i’m certain like a salinger people will pour out their guts to see every last word i’ve written.

The dusk soon vanished in to a chill, dark night
which our elderly sedan cut through expertly,
it’s headlamps discovering new trees with
each sweeping turn that we mad around each
smooth country curve.

there were no stars that we could see.
They were there, though, Mr. Hugo assured me,
despite our lack of visual proofs.
I could not deny his theory any more
than he could prove it, however, and
just as well, for then it began to rain.

The droplets came slowly at first, only
bubbling on the surface of our windshield.
Then, all at once, the shower became a downpour
and it was easily classified as torrential.

Mr. Hugo suggested that we retire from the road,
but I insisted that we keep on. After all, I said,
We had no campgear, there were no clearings,
and it was only rain, after all. He shrugged,
as was his way. Alright was all he said.

The downpour soon doubled it’s efforts, and
despite their fervor, our windshield wipers could
hardly take the blur away.
The world became
a wash of looming trees and yellow light,
which I compared off-hand to the reports
of a near-death experience.

Then, the road began to jag.
The road had slicked from the sudden wash,
and though my foot came up so slightly from the throttle,
it was not up quite enough,
and the very next zig had us spinning.

Goddamnit, I heard Mr. Hugo say
and though I fought the wheel there was no use
as we flew from the road and in to a stand of
strong, unyielding Spruce trees, and to what would be,
unfortunately,
Our final digression

today i’ll celebrate like a six year old girl on her way to an ear-piercing, princess-dress-up, Justin Bieber birthday party
because hey
i never was a six year old girl
and there are some things
you just cant afford to miss

He was teaching you to walk
and you got up to run
away you went
looking and walking anew
seeing with untrained eyes
touching with shallow
translucent
skin

then you tried to speak to me
and though i understood your sounds
and their order
i felt the shortness of breath
behind every syllable
and i realized
that you can’t even breathe right

and here you are trying to talk to me.

Over years and years
like some sort of slowly-evolving serpent
you have rubbed away your vestigial
limbs of sorts: Your heart and soul and
your sense of reason. But I am confident
that somewhere deep inside of you,
near your core or just a little before it,
there’s a part of you that’s still alive, but
this is a confidence that roots on hearsay
and it. Is. Wavering.

I stumbled on a flock of geese this evening
basking in the sun just beyond
a browning stand of evergreens
and it’s cruel insects

The fowl were soaking in the last
and reddest stretch of daylight
and they did not speak or crow
or flap or quack as they soaked.
They soaked and nothing more.

I had not disturbed them
so I watched very quietly
and did not move to lift my hunting rifle.
I scratched away an insect
and I hummed a bit
and the beautiful birds kept soaking
while the sun kept sinking
But as it went, so the stretches of daylight
got redder and redder
until everything finally and suddenly
went black.

There were no stars in
what I assumed must be the sky,
and I could not make out even the faintest
silhouette of my found flock, and when
I turned, I found my stand of trees
had blackened instead of browned.
It worried me, and I began to run.

I left my hunting rifle somewhere in that glade
and my hat flew away as a breeze picked up
and my heart was pounding as my lungs
pumped furiously to keep me whole
and soon, I was overtaken by a thick,
unyielding dread.

It sat in my chest as a 3-year old
thinking he was winning a wrestling match
might sit. It crushed in deep and I,
without thinking, shattered myself
as I raced away.

I was lost for eternity, I’m sure,
as I stumbled through the clawing woods
and strangling sounds of the wild.
Soon I could not breathe.
Shortly after, I could no longer run.
Finally I failed to stand and then,
like the end of every nightmare,
the dark and foul overtook me.

the new degree came.
in laud.
and brought with it a void where i anticipated a feeling of pride
you always look at these other folks as something different. made from something different. and now i’m one of these folks. and i feel of the same substance.

transubstantiation would have made me feel a little better.
but i — master roger — cant live my whole life
acting as though i’m not better than you.
(nor have i).

even if my actions never reflect it, my poetry will be brutally self-serving. my prose overwhelmingly prideful. i will be that unabashed ass. because i can.

today, just a run of the mill guy.
tomorrow, if all goes well,
a master.

they actually write this on a piece of paper
and give it to me.

a master.

thats master roger to you.

It is a trifling spirit and nothing more
that wails across the stones and valley.
It is inconsequential.
it screams and lies without a breath.

I saw it this evening. It spoke to me
with harsh tones and chattering teeth
but I was not one to listen to the Dead.

It gnashed it’s gnarled maw and spat
and sputtered but I would hear no more.
It squealed and boiled over but I
was in no heart to be offended.

I climbed the stones and out
of the valley, and I stood and watched
for just a moment, before I left
that poor, dead trifling spirit
to wailing, and nothing more.

You asked me once
what I thought life was all about
and I didn’t have anything to say
but now I think if you asked me
I’d say something saucy like
‘don’t worry about it’
because Jesus Fucking Christ
I sure don’t much anymore.

i would.

(but it’s spring.)

We swear we’re kings of this world
As a solitary spider
Spins string stronger than steel

spend my life wondering if i’ve made this decision correctly
not with who.
or how or what i did.
but whether or not my plans for this weekend
were appropriate.

You have a crown,
made of twisted-up straw wrappers.
It sits awkwardly and is
sort of getting pulled apart
while you wrestle at the table
with your boyfriend.

You are smiling and
everyone is watching you smile
and hoping you keep smiling
and John, he’s twisting you
a new crown because
we all see that the old one
isn’t going to last.

I heard you got your papers
and you’re stuck here for life.
Or years – close enough to life
for you.

We tried to tell you that this city,
it’s not so bad really.
We tried to keep your eyes
away from travel magazines and
glorified computer desktop
backgrounds. You’ll just right-click again.

And you cry so much these days,
darling, and we don’t know what to do.
You breathe the air and swear it’s
not as good as it was a month ago.
You spit up your cakes and candies
and have nothing to say for it.

But John is twisting a crown for you.
If he has to keep you smiling one diner
at a time, He has no qualms
getting famous in those restaurants.

But I, my dear,
can not stand your self-inflicted
wounds any longer.
I swear, this time.

I wash my hands of you.
I will scrub very hard, at least,
and I will keep a towel with me
for the next time I get dirty,
because damn it,
You never really do come off.