1.7.15

incredibly tight with my crafty

incredibly tight with my crafty

don't like anything nassty

drawin up plans theyyy beautiful

livin in hills that bounty

trees got to me way back

i see how sharp lines

in wizened bark form eyes

i see /how sharp lines be

yeah never loose like paint

water o my brook seems quaint

cuz once tried to be a saint

but you know i ain't dutiful

still incredibly tight with my crafty

drawin in lines they enact me

yeah only like whatsss musical

livin in hills that bounty
trees in these foots i walk all the
time seein sharp lines

widening mine

1.7.15

The Dust Catcher

I am The Dust Catcher, mother. I am woman.
I surround you. Use me. Breathe me. Let me
be your eyes, your womb, your plaything,
your canvass, your tomb.

I'm a nurse. A cursed fairy, come drink from
my fountains, be cleansed. I'm a witch. You
may wade in my reeds, shrivel up
in my cauldron.

I purify the stray, lick cock for the damned,
lead your pen, guide your brush, bend your
step that you might hush in my
eternal love, forgiven.

i wrote this poem at 17 when i realized many people drawn to me had dust on them. i did not want to be a dust catcher. i wanted no dust on me, and to be rid of my own dust. on LSD i tore the poem and deposited it in a public bin. yrs later laying under a sky of innumerable swiftly changing cloud faces, the eyes of a cloud belonging to the mouth and tongue of another, ears and cheeks of other clouds belonging to other clouds and evermorphing the words came from the sky just as i wrote them in a strong womans voice i finally recognized as my own.

1.7.15

theres a poem im writing which will not get wrote. it is a chapbooks length and growing. will it ever stop? shedding, metamorphin, moved to kentuck after 36 yrs in cleve and have been molting since. first 18 yrs belonged to my parents. next belonged to my marriage. im enter my third leg in Pleasureville, KY, my life belonging to me ha, or me belonging to my life, now, i suppose. here is a short segment true about utensils, some of my kentucky aspects which have hit me and blest me, a thread in the poem "I Don't." maybe one time ill post the whole shebang. 

she left me with a yogurt. she knew i preferred plain.
dropped me off at the roadside, low clouds somersaulted
over plains strobed sun, on and off white field grass like
a moving picture.

 
a wake of buzzards gathered in ash by
the interstate sign which looked pastel as a reverie
or tumid flesh. leaves collected like a pile of rugs
i sidestep; take off my sandals,

 
adjust to the rocky path. i walk. home.
a burst wood shed gleams like a grand piano
in a foyer with an open floor plan. i defend
the sanctity of the individual. picnic as you can get,
musing on where once stood corn now razed
like a crude haircut.

i notice i am making fists. bareoot trees and shrubs
i make my hands noncommital inhabiting a bigger
world. something shimmers several paces ahead.
looks neon, lodged alongside flaccid branches
wrecked by a hailstorm.

curious, i advanced towards what turned out
to be a spoon in the road.

i know buckskin relates to the flourescent lights
with Catholic charity. only miracle he’s seen was
a rabbit who refused to die. it kept house
in a hole right under a hawks nest and actually
swam across the creek, which was technically
a river times of the year just by girth,
despite buckshot, shots of all kind.

i know buckskin relates to the clouds with a
silver shuddering under a brown wool coat.
i will have black mascara on the day his
paraffin skin unfolds to purple peonies
bursting forth like asparagus stalks and i can
say what is well ends. 

why is it i keep finding things in the grass?

he kept finding spoons and forks. some given
him by people who did not know he possessed
sets. Cambodian. Malasian. to him having
not been captured in North Vietnam took him

into his wood habit i would not break like
a red mouth sun. boar spear made of solid
hickory. white pines about to fall off brown
crags. dark shapeless zombie wail lets the
mouth of sky lets clouds to a franchise of
ash. 25 pounds on my shollder balanced

casually on one of my thumbs. not that i would
take down a boar but that i could effortlessly
walk with such a schtick. hickory hedge iron
he has, we stare down the holler. they
might fly off. 

1.6.15

( this poem is yrs old, but full of rezzies good for new year. )

i want to love
u dont know patience
i love too much
you get mad quick with drink
i choose the wrong ones
you are excellent at dances
i just gotta keep opening
you told off yer shrink
i must feel this so i can love more
you should drink the beer thats alreddy open
i cannot walk again o'er a trapdoor
you are blind
i am blind
you need to rest yer body
i like my blinders
you gotta save yer mojo for a friday nite
i drink smoke and laff the day
you are humble yes
i am lucky
you like to gripe
i got so much goin/all i need/more than i even want
you are usually gay
i sometimes without knowing it
  end up trying to save someone's soul
you gotta quit that
i write poems to save the world
u write poems on dope
i know ya can't lead but by example
u know there ain't no teachers in this world
right, there’s students only
u can exist with or without being adored
why don't u fold yer clothes
  and take them to the drawer
u should regonize the sailor in a tree
i say keep yer cupboards bare

1.6.15

summons

dark beckoned as we drove. in the clouds
a young girl birthed easily a hairless goat into
a coral bladder. miles markers on i startled--

two pottery statues of goats, life-sized if not
life-like grazed stilly, in a brushed front yard
surrounded by a herd of real ones. as it got
on to dark, he said watch those hills for
coyotes.

last time he said it one did soon appear briefly,
by the Classy Lady Concrete Masonry sign.
i watched the hills, alright, racing lime shadows.
all i managed to eke from the eider sand and
cacti was a border patrol jeep, hood-deep
in orange prairie weeds by a divide.

the officer had his nocs in his paws invoking
from lower desert plains coyotes of another
kind. i want a kiss, i thot.

can you please hand me the map? he asked.
youre lookin at it, i sed cryptic, one of my
best smiles on, my left hand already 
conjuring the atlas from our moonlit console.

1.6.15

Market Price

an old money crushed-granite mountain
sports an ascot of mint green and magenta
paisley, still and stately, if eager before
his crusty ridge of baked spiny lobster.

1.6.15

hog heaven

the only bright thing lay ahead of us; coupla clouds
shot-thru by the only two visible beams of light for
miles, laser sharp eyes of an angry god castigated
the green milk of the rio bravo, cooked a chorus of
giant river cane, and perforated limestone bluffs on
either side which Reed, our mustachioed guide
explained are but tightly compressed souls
of long dead, sunken animals. 

a lone cottonwood graced sandy loam on up the
shore with its casual indifference, its lower trunk
rendered barkless, a prone boys wrinkled scrotum
on which graffittoed grooves left by feral hogs &
javelinas tuskatillos spelt ohm in ten thousand
shade tongues.