I Aim To, Yes

I will take your hand like a mountain 
an impossible climb, time passing
we know this, never so gently 
as the song playing in our heads, four ribbons
outta four winds, snow in the lung
shovel up to the door of your sadness heart
tonight I am a huge fire, 
you’re the thunder roaring under
motel floor boards, six-pack eyes 
call the owl to bread, let the garden sink
under autumn rain, listen to the dark highway 
hum a sweet little song of pain, 
Yes, I’ll take your hand, try very hard to understand 
what the poem tried to say, what my eyes couldn’t find
all alone anyway, out here in triumph or drown land
low edge blur of town, I just want to pause the hurt
be a fixer-downer 
back to the roots, inside the seed 
ride the wind, let the wound bleed
back East West North South
anywhere but nowhere 
everywhere the poor heart lands
yes, in your hands…

Swimming Hole

There may be snakes 
in the water 

probably there are snakes 

and sharp rocks 
in the shallows 

there are also leeches 

you can be certain 
there are leeches 

and all manner 
of slick, biting things 

but the water is cool 
and it is such a heavy day 

there may be disease 
in the dark water 
and sudden pits 
for drowning 

there may be ghosts 
of missing children 
and bodies 
still tangled in vines 

there may be broken glass 
and poison 

but it is so hot 
and the water feels 
delicious

it is best to jump head first 
someone said 

it is best to get your head under 
right away

it is best 
not to think about it 

it is best to love 
the things impatient 
to devour you

No One To Say it To

Despair is a room in my Father’s house 
it’s too long a story to tell standing up
some days it’s like you aren’t even human 
but you are you are you are 

And you can go tell it now from every mountain 
how Linda danced alone in her mobile home
and no one ever checked on her 
not once did anyone notice the ghost town she had become 
despair just another a room in her bones no one had a key to

And the dark Indiana wind at night rocking smoke stack trailers 
till the hills feel what the road can do
when a car goes over like 48 years of mute prayers
chucking itself into the nameless thing

It’s too much to tell standing up
how she never felt human / not once
but she was she was she was 

Perfect Joy

One of his fondest memories
is from going to Baku in Azerbaijan,
from where, much like Paris,
he remembered little other than flashes
of wild scenes and his rapidly decreasing bank account.

In Baku he had hooked up with a beautiful tranny
who was short and had all the woman parts 
and was as it seemed much easier to pleasure.

They had taken two oxycodins each and had gone
to the zoo where emperor tamin monkeys were 
left free to roam and often steal
and one of’em had climbed on top of him, 
sat on his neck
and searched his thick hair for lice.

The sensation was incredible. Deep into his high
with the monkey massaging his skull, 
he took out a Buprenorphine film, supplied
by the tranny who at that moment 
was an absolute bouquet  of flowers,
and put it under his tongue
and as it melted there
exploding a new high
he closed his eyes
drooling
erected
and was as close to zen as souls can be.

The perfect nothingness. 
Black but blonde with light
and filled 
with the most spectacular feeling of contentment.

He had passed out after that.

The Way We Know Things

Your eyes adjust, little one
this cradle is a highway 

your mother knows 
the winding 
of these roads
and the soft kill 
of the fatherland

a poisoned heart

breaking bread
on the asphalt 
behind Pete’s 
abandoned Motel

Prairie Dallas prays for mercy 
in an empty bathtub
what feels like a dark redemption 
coursing through her veins

I don’t regret it
she says to the ceiling 

her boy is playing in the headlights
of a stranger’s car 
by the road to nowhere 

wind blows 
through a paper bag world
and the evening news says 
brighter days are ahead

most of us 
have to work a little harder 
for that kinda light.

jack and his french gurl

whistle winds wash
over the meadow
the grass tall
and whipping

there are borage flowers
that sprout wild
in patches of blue
like little islands
in an ocean of green

her eyes are agile
and hazel

they remind me of dead leaves

naked and mounted
she pushes herself
into me, holding her breasts
the nipples a heathered pink
and her skin soft and
flawless

i eject
my seed
the milky
mass festering
in her
ovaries

and the leaking blood
down her thighs
like a creek

the red stains as
we lay adjacent
on the earth

it becomes like
a tattoo, to remember
the pain and the shame

boring

never got 
the psycho thing.

I get the thrill 
of control and domination 
in the bedroom, yeah

but not to the extent of 
nonconsenting sexual violence
and/or murder. 

truth be told,
I don’t see what the ego boost is:
the human 
is a stupid 
self-sabotaging
soft bag of organs.
not exactly hard prey.
we’ve been killing 
and repressing each other 
for centuries
because it’s easy.
we’re pretty low hanging fruit if you ask me. 

so no,
I don’t kill people 
because I think 
it makes me special. 

I just do it
to shut them up,
like any other normal person.