I’m not looking at the clock
except maybe on birthdays.
Working hard, but
for a limited time only.
For seventy or so years I’ll labor,
and then I’m going home.
And at home is where
I’ll shed my clothes,
shed my skin,
shed my muscles,
shed my bones.
I’ll sit at the table.
We’ll all sit around the table,
like a giant family reunion.
We’ll bow our heads and say grace,
and I’ll hold hands with my Father.

Rasputin stares at the cold cold ground
and Rasputin walks around
with a sword in his walkingstick
and a bottle-opener in his bible
Rasputin walks around on the ground

Rasputin cast a spell on his stereo
and Rasputin never lets a record spin
but he listens patiently
for the music he would like to see
Rasputin walks around on the ground

i am god and god is a wolf
birthing everything to have
it eaten
and in my hands is destruction
and in my head is the destroyer
of what is good

or what i love, at least

the hunger pains they
ebb and flow
and i doubt its worth
as there is no finality
to be found
forever hunting

Free-styling,
Free-wheeling,
spilling out impromptu thoughts
that somehow fit,
that somehow hint
at an intelligence greater
or a greater intelligence,
whichever the case may be
in which the mystery
is somehow solved
of how to not make an ass,
whilst standing on stage.

The mood gets heavier
just as the curtains close
on the window to the world,
blocking and blurring the
big back yard of ours
by vision only.

The rodents sleep deep
and underground, while
the dogs and deer and things
roam and wander overland,
looking up now and then
at the great birds flying.

But the mood is the important thing,
and I can hardly lift it
when those curtains are shut.
no, I can hardly make
anything better
inside.

Her marble features,
An angelic patina.
But with deeper eyes,
A window to the within.
Like broken porcelain
Pieced back together,
Still ceaselessly fractured
By hairlines whispering
Of a previous break.

gaudy curves that seemed filled
with sugar
perfect like the rolling hills
of tennessee, only pleasantly
excessive

lawless dark brown hair
matching her face
with metal pertruding
through her lower-left lip

she was lost, her figure
filling out a mold made
from fantasties grown stale
and muddied by years
of dissilusionment
and cold

and in the middle of
directing her to muskegon,
after my eyes had travelled the
breadth of her voluptious
body, i told her about it
i told her about her beauty,
i said “you’re gorgeous…
by the way”

and she paused
smiling
with one foot out the door
and didn’t say thanks

she left me for muskegon
with something hidden
inside of a smile and
a pause
perfect like a picture

i cant feel my toes when
i numb them from the run from my
fears which i hope i can escape in
this here present reality. the naturally
deposited ground would feel gritty
if my feet were any more capable
of feeling but instead the sandpaper
texture turns silk and the catharsis
from the pain i attempt to induce
becomes something much more like
a back rub or lullaby slowly rocking me
to sleep.

the autmn decent
chills my chemical roots
and i’m
falling through the smoke
shedding weight to
diminish the rate

this is it
it reminds me of you
take another drag
close eyes

hide

It all worked out so perfectly
with the storm lifting
the fever breaking
the cough enduring
the drizzle coming now-and-then
with just enough body aches
and mud-puddles to know
that what had happened
had happened, and
we can’t change the past
but we can better the future.
Except when it comes to
bad weather and
flu viruses.

I crack my bones
but do not grind them
as I have no need for bread;
my sustenance is
the particulate
that flutters through the air,
from all the grinding bones
scattered about.

No, I do not grind my bones.
But Surely, you can hear them crack

five AM rise before the sun
my reflection in the water treatment pool
my feet on this trash-soiled ground
toes gripping every crevice
music and running as fast as my
legs will carry me
bring me before the throne.
before the sun.

I don’t have to hear the footsteps
to see the footprints
planted so firmly in the
thick orange sand.

Odds are I will not hear them
anyway, what with
the winds always blowing
and the constant breath
of my lungs moving
trying to keep up
with the beating
of the sun.

The footprints, though,
the give you right away.

the king of stuff is high on
a mountain-top

city-smoke billowing out of his mouth

his heart pumps ice-water
his feet keep the time
his apathy is magnetic

and the sky will fall while
the king of stuff is still standing

of that you can be sure.

Every drive home from
a day spent without the
sweet caress of my love
is so cruel and terrible
and I often wonder how
I can bear to stand it,
save for looking ahead
to another day with her.
But even then, my
fingers are sore from
the cut of another woman,
and she can feel, and
she can tell, but I know
she’ll never leave me.
Still, that short drive
is made long, and the
silence, oh so cruel
and terrible.

morning comes with no milk for my child
no water for my tea
and i leave the house without my routine
broken somehow in my own strength
buying breakfast on the street as i was
denied my granola
i hop aboard my bike and head in to work
munching slowly on my egg crepe stuffed
with spicy potatoes enjoying it almost exactly
the way i like it.

then legs emerge from the potatoes and before
i would allow myself to distinguish a head
i bite
and sans-chew i spit you out.
the rest of my meal untarnished is to be
now consumed because
dang it.
there was no water for my tea.

I wish that I could be there
to taste the juices leaking
from your eye sockets
And hold your skin-and-bone
hands as they tremble,
just to feel them tremble,
just beneath the necktie
that I’m sure you wore.
Though you probably felt
you may as well have been naked.
I probably feel the same.
After all,
It only seems fair to me.