The books and papers say
we’re animals and
I suppose that makes for some kind
of half-there excuse
but 50 percent is a failing grade
and I’ve never heard of rabbits
and chickadees
grading any papers anyway.

Leave my lineage out of this
because when I kick you, I
mean to kick you,
especially when you’re
on the bottom,
shins or ass or teeth
or the shit right out of you.

but you cried before then,
plain as day and sure as anything
and when I heard I did not
weep or run or smile and lean closer.
The fingers held tight as hands
and there was solid truth amongst
your self-prescribed chaos.

now breathe.
And clarify with these next breaths
what you really mean to say
when you tell me
that we’re animals.

A fat chunk of moon
Spat out like a sour lolly
Soft and almost lilac
Illuminates the young hands
Silvery, piano-agile, darting
Floating gestures by the light of
The moon
As light and wispy as the yellow
Summer pollen that falls nearby
Unseen
Just another secret in the night
The satisfying ‘thowck’ of snapped metal
Sends a murmur across taut lips
Ricochets from letterbox to fence
To lonely backyard kennel
And back again
They squeeze him through,
The big wooly giant, acquiescent
Prehistoric in size
Silent as a grave
Silent as their worn, highschool sneakers
On the manicured neighborhood pavement
Then out!
Out and shaky into the night
He trots off, absorbed quickly by darkness
But not unheard
As jovial ‘baaaas’ bounce across
A tin and brick suburbia
Leaving late night thinkers perplexed.

searching
in sunlit waist-high grass:
a flower for her sister.

I do not offer what I bring to this table
What I bring to this table is of my own concern
Do not busy yourself with my business
for we’ve far too little time to tarry
now speak

and tell me
precisely
what it means

from the effigy burning in your front yard
to the bumper sticker on your refrigerator
to the love you tried to show but
never really had to give

Speak loud and slowly
I’m hard of hearing in my years of listening
to the stereo blasting far too loud.

I always thought it funny
that you could talk shit in stereo.

Trees and the like protrude so haphazardly,
sometimes,
and I don’t know if I can stand for it.

Axe and hatchet and saw and here we
go, to lumber-jacking. Sure to
clear the forest floor of everything
even remotely forested.

After all, we don’t have time
for all this touchy-feely shit,
and the deep green hues of the
high-top foliage only
makes to block the sun.

Or more usually in this season,
shades of gray.

You don’t know what it’s like
to have to clear-cut the woods
around your existential spaces.

You don’t know what it’s like,
but you will.

let me love the breath
you used to breathe against
my window, just to
draw a little message
in the fog.

and let me love the breath
you used to breathe in to
those fires, sending flame
and smoke and ashes
to the sky

Let me love the breath
you whispered, slipping
through the branches of
the crab-apple trees
you never really dug

Let me love the breath
you used to breathe against
my window,
and I’ll try to forget
the breath you
used to say
goodbye

life has her hands down
her pants and she’s
thinking of someone else
you are
in the
right hand
lane,
following all of the
exit signs

the crows they line up
by the high-way side

it’s getting dark out
and you’re getting tired
so you’ll go to a motel
where she will fake it
to keep
you alive
for herself

the acid rain clouds
seem to follow your car

you wonder if you’ll ever
make it home.

i cant stand in the presence
of the awe with which you
just filled the room

Semper Fi
Do or Die
I hear them shouting
marching waving
banners, waving guns
and making sure
that every one is
quite aware they’re here
to tear in to the
soul
of the situation

The marching feet
tell stories
worth a million words
a step
(left right left)
of blood on tracks,
of blood on hands
and cities left
to burning

but Semper Fi
Do or Die
they’ll shout
with every step
(left right left)
until they done
or did, and there’s
not a banner left

I would like a little clarity
And I’d like not to have a choice
I’d like to always be attuned
And listen to that still small voice.

the bank teller from last month:
a gun pressed to his temple
eyes closed he trembled like a leaf
trying to put bills into a bag
i have a wife, three kids…please…
i approached noiselessly
said something witty, something dark
and before the crook could turn in surprise
i snapped his neck his body fell to the floor in a heap
thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
said the teller.
the other day he quit his job
left his wife
left his kids
figuring life is short, said fuck this,
got into his car and drove across town
into the arms of another.

why do i fight for this world
when they do all they can to destroy it?

the old lady from last week:
her feeble cries for help
barely lifted from the flames
the smoke choked her ancient lungs
she felt the heat of Death’s breath
i crashed through the weakened roof
tossed flaming furniture from my path
found her in the corner
scooped her gently into my arms
leapt down six stories to safety
thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
said the old lady.
an investigation later revealed
the source of the conflagration:
her meth lab.
and
in the other room:
the charred remains of
her four-month-old granddaughter.

why do i fight for this world
when they do all they can to destroy it?

the prime minister yesterday
impeccable his in his new suit
stood at the podium pontificating
oblivious to the sniper’s crosshairs.
he would later say when he heard the shot
his life flashed before his eyes
but I moved across the stage
swift as light
caught the bullet in my right hand
presented it to him as a souvenir
thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
said the prime minister.
today he declared war
in retaliation for the attempt on his life
half a million soldiers prepare for battle
saying goodbye to childrenwiveshusbandsbrotherssistersmothersfathers
taking up their guns
promising to write
promising to make everyone proud.

why do i fight for this world
when i should destroy it?

spring’s breath,
on my old wounds, flowers bud
branches lean
seeded clouds my roots shower
but the desiccate feeling lingers
thrusting me further into the ground
selfish love green green again
la mauvaise vie a ses charmes
under this new skin
the sap crystallizes
leaves fall
at the mercy of a season,
a soil, and
a sky too singular.

I don’t know what life you’re looking for
and I don’t care what you think of mine
but I’m happy splitting a bottle of scotch
in a basement on the South side
and making crude jokes and playing guitar
every other Friday.

Maybe that’s not the life you’re after
but it sure works fine for me.
Now grab a glass and find some ice,
you can’t go drinking scotch warm, you know?

John laid the trolling motor in the lake
the whirring of the engine pushing him around
the tiny explosions in sync with his heart
he saw no oasis in the void
man was the only light around.

and blow us all away,
out of our small lives,
out of our small town,
huffing and puffing
and blowing our house
away to a far off place
where anything is possible
and we can experience the magic
that truly comes from
new beginnings.

There is blood running from the cuts on my hands
It is inconsistent blood. It drips and drools capriciously
down arms to thighs to knees to ankles
to feet to toes to the cold hard floor
to the drain in the corner of this public restroom
down the eternity or instance
of a sewage pipe

The smell is a terrible smell
it smells not of death, but of life leaving the body
as it wastes itself to nothingness
before the mirror of a Seven-Eleven.
All the world is spinning, though
it feels as though it’s stopping.

The muse would be perfect had I a feather-pen
to dab in to my liquids. The circumstance
is not so perfect.

I can only sigh and consider
working a dead-end job in a burger joint
(or gas station):

This must be
just what that
feels like

the clouds
reforming–
a puddle’s reflection.