progress.
forward movement
with or without
momentum
moves me from
one step back
to one step forward

you know when
setting out for a run
you feel like vomiting
until a mile in
when your system
gives in and stops
fighting and overheats
and then enjoys it

progress.
forward movement
momentum-independent
until the moment i can
stop.

and brakes will do their
thing.
lazy boys on porches
with a bloodhound loud
and lazy as we scream
at children for being too
loud and the weather for
being too tough on our
knees.

yea.

progress. until we
stop.

You looked so good
in your Sunday’s Best
but on a Wednesday night?
I can not fathom why.

You looked damn good,
though. Cruel to say per
haps, circumstantially
speaking. You looked
damn good, though.

I bet you can get
way down in those
wingtip shoes, though.
Boy, I bet you
can get all the way down
in those black heels.

But on a Wednesday night?
I can not begin
to try to fathom
what you’re doing out.

up on the rooftop i hear this
dude in red walking round
stroking his beard and twinkling
his nose

our chimney is small to say the least
and the man can only be described
as “girthy”
so i sit and drink some christmas
flavored schnapps
(something about schnapps says christmas)
christmas schnapps
awaiting the round man.

i’ve got a new game you see
and i hear this guy can get down for a fat guy.

i cant beat my family
but maybe against a round guy with a reputation
for dance moves
i can stand a chance.

i look forward to it.
with my christmas schnapps
and wait for roundy to slip through these
here ashes.

further proof that you can’t trust your nerves well i saw the blood on the cloth last night and when it dried so too did the feeling and when it dried it disappeared and i love and hate and feel like crying all within a cycle of the heart and when it’s gone wouldn’t i kill but when it’s here wouldn’t i leave further proof that you can’t trust your nerves.

They sink their blades so
deeply and if I am to simply
bleed out of my abdomen and
moulder and die I will try to do
so at home so at least I won’t
feel so beat up about it.

sometimes you pack up
your bags and you head for softer ground
made by god not man hands thousands
of years ago when He decided these mountains
should make a baseball glove
(because He’s God and He knew about
baseball long before folks cheered
when the yankees lost)
that would catch sand and then
catch snow on sides and sun
on others to create a perfect

place for us to run and fall
and crash face first into pain and sand
and forget all about that thing we came
to forget about.

and sand in our socks to give us memories
that aren’t the thing we came to forget about

i called you
two minutes from home
because the moon,
low and orange and gigantic on the horizon,
was worth seeing

when you couldn’t see it
you told me to pick you up
so i pulled over
you stepped in
and we drove

no longer visible from
where i had called you
we continued to drive
over the bridge
into the next town–
to no avail–
nothing lay on the horizon anymore

we marveled
at the speed of the moon
(but really, the speed of the earth’s rotation)
kissed beneath nothing but a street lamp
and drove home.

Yes, the wolf,
he bites and does his damages
to prey and plaything,
choking out the beauty
so noble-ly, and until
they die, only to rend
the flesh from bones.

But he, he is a fisherman,
and a catch-and-release man, too.
He deals only so much damage
and just long enough
to claim to have held,
before casting catch away.

At least the wolf,
gory and red though
his work may be,
has the dignity
to mean it.

a hankie is just a way
to carry your snot around
with you and slowly
crust up your pocket

You look down your nose with your
cathedral-colored eyes while your
flapping jowls sling pickling brine
and my hands are dripping from
covering my mouth and my back
is cold from this damp, stinking shirt
and I try to understand your rambling
but amidst the catcalls and birdsongs
of the passers-by it’s hard to
stay so focused on such blitherings
as those of your station tend towards
but God and all, I swear, that
one day I will stand and step and
smack some sense in to you
with the back of my wet hand
and when I drop my quarters in
the washing machine down the road,
I’ll mail you a bill

repetition-tition
brings those things that
you claim you never
never needed or wanted
or hoped for.

those things that
like rhyme
like reason
like the phantom in that
phone booth
can handle words yous
cant otherwise use

like that and take that
and smoke that
and

with a beat or two
and a white rapper
you could be something
if you only had words that
you could throw down
in a pinch that
make people twitch that
scratch people’s itch that

um….
yea like that.

i’ve a brilliant idea
i’ll wait till the children
downstairs are most likely
asleep and then i’ll grab this here
rope and see how many times
i can leap over it in quick
succession and shake
these floors.

if these kids want to learn how
to sleep i know just the thing
noise. noise. incessant noise.

i’m really doing them a favor
i am.
teaching them to sleep.

Some will play those bleeding heartstrings
until their fingers bleed just the same
and no-one has a place to stand because
all the cobbled streets are awash with it

I played another set of strings, though,
down on the back of a hot small-block
and though they did not bleed,
they certainly had heart,
and all the burn was more than enough
compensation.

And when you tossed me those rags
to clean the bleed from my fingers,
Friend, I can tell you, Certainly
was the only way I thought
that all was right with the world.

Season comes again.

Walking, air stifles breath.
Breathe, absorb frost.
Autumn, but it’s Winter.

Icy air—mindful—you.
Scent unidentified—familiar.
Wafted from north.

Leaves whisked by same wind.
Take this kiss, blown.
Stretch—reach Providence.

Remember.

Oh, how the world
it jostles itself in to order
one way or the other

or that’s the way it seems
hit every red light once
and tell me different.
Hit every green and tell me
the same.

Like the time that you
made two pies and
ett the second one first
and then you realized
that the first one needed
to bake a bit longer.

You narrowly avoided food-
bourne disease that time,
too.

And now all your friends are over
and just raring for
a slice,
or two,
And you ett your fill already
so there’s plenty, anyway.

Funny how things work out
Or that’s the way it seems,
anyway. Bake a pie
and tell me different.

all of you deserve a song
or a sonnet at least
goddamnit some sort of prose
maybe a short poem
at least a couple of words

and the world, well
it deserves the finest painting
or some sort of modernist
abstract piece
one that would garner review
in at least the college paper
at least

i should mention this night
in my autobiography
or an essay, a memoir
my diary
at least

and all of the unknown
doesn’t it all deserve some
thought? at least?
an hour of life,
set a side
at least a moment
or two of reflection

but i?
i deserve nothing at all
not but a stretch of solitude
at least.

as self pity is one of the most disgusting forms of the sin of sins. pride. and you revel in it in new ways bringing insight, innovation, and a general new interest in the subject from the public. yea. i’m talking about you who re-invented the color black because hanging your head seemed too mundane to be taken seriously by those who effing should feel sorry for you.

yea my fingers ache to write
and i’ve lined my computer up
just perfectly with the right
software and setup to be what
i imagine could be called productive.

oh and my book topic is complete
even the ideas are relatively well
formed and outlined in my head.
sure a few minutes of mapping it
out might be useful to the process.

and it doesn’t matter what they say
i type WAY faster than i could possibly
spit this thing out in longhand even
with the constant distractions in the
background vying for my attention.

and though the motivation knocks
at the door every few hours i have
yet to pull the trigger. rather i keep
the book within the crosshairs and know

i simply cannot fail until the first
sentence is formed of absolute vomit
and i re-read and give up hope in my
unrealized vanity.

Famished, returning from the hunt,
Through the tenebrous stretch of forest
Into the clearing: Jacob’s bungalow in sight.
And from within, ambrosial delights!
The most decadent of delicious delicacies!
“That wench of a brother,” Esau spake,
“He’ll have a minivan in no time.”
But what hunger!
To discard birthright for a single bowl,
It must have been one hell of a porridge!
Though soon after, his appetite returned:
And “Call me Oliver,” he spaked,
“But I want some more, please.”