They huddle up
like any troop of monkeys
before the ice.

Voices hushed,
they whisper under the thick wind
– is this how we shall die
penniless and in want
of justice?

when the blues step in
to command their hearts to beat
more slowly, the heat
grows, the voices
become as a storm.

The austere violence of hope
sings out from smoky ignorance
a song of selfless self.

“Away, away,” a people becomes a person
they weep together
as they fall apart.

falling from anywhere
landing in a multitude of same
white as white, even whiter
laying silent, waiting
to melt away to nothing
understanding only wind
and the voice of cold
across the vast expanse
– is this hate
or how we forget
everything that matters?

of fluffing skirt, of watermelon, of tweezer, cherry, and of crow,
the raging damage of sunblock on the days we hardly know
of waterfilter, of posh foie gras, of scissor, apple and The FIX,
the mild bothers of a chipmunk on a sunny stone out there turning trix
of sparkling gem, of dead bloodhound, as sleezy cherry smokes a bone
the wild rush of bike heat, then you call my bluff, so I crank one out alone.
of fluffing hard, of moaning loud, of waxing cheery swell of lip
the raging raucous grunting with a strong hand on your hip
of water sports, of porsche’s pass, of razor, sharp and quick
the flying push, the chipmunk squeal, the skin all hot and slick
Oh come to me, my pretty one, eat, then let us drink some more
be the poem, the novel one, the angel, saint and whore

and thus the chill becomes the feather
dancing in the air, an almost stirless heavy
growing in my hair, a never-thought of weather
just beyond my stair

and thus the cruel of winter’s kiss
promised to my skin – an always stirring heady
wanting of a sin, a desperate thought of bliss
just beyond again

and thus the sweater becomes the holy rite
dusting off the cold, an almost sterling hurry
cradled warm delight, a forgotten thought of starry night
just to now behold

and thus the starling moot becomes the weather
fleeing on the breeze, an always stirring heaven
growing o’er my hair, a never-thought of feather
just beyond my stare.

and i see them dirty
rolling, spinning, turning
around in their own filth
y thoughts about things
they do not understand
i say, ‘you are filthy
dirty, spinning, turning
around in your own
stupid thoughts about
things you do not under
stand.’ they say, ‘with me
there is more to this
than you can see
on the surface. i am here
fighting for something real
ly important. really real
ly important. what you see
is the ugliness on the out
side, what is here is
the beauty of the words
and dreams.’ i do not
nod. i walk away.

with every day i do not speak
to you, you have to wonder
am i not speaking
to you, or is it just every day
i am wandering without you
and you about without me.

with every day you do not speak
to me, i have to wander
about wondering if i am not
speaking to you, or if it is just
a day i am wandering about you
without wondering about me

with everyday you, I wonder
about wandering about without
me speaking to you
you to me, speaking about
wandering about wondering about
me and everyday me speaking about
wondering about without you.

with every day, I do not speak
do you, i have to wonder
if I am not speaking about me
to you wandering about.

in a gob of mob, they slobber
around the once-green now
full of vinegar and piss
thin plastic thoughts of tupperware
holding them together as they marvel
at themselves. i am not you
i yell into the ravenless tree
that surrounds this point.
they pull back another, and
another and laugh at nothing
except me. in a pasture
gone two hundred years
a thousand cows passed oh yes
this ignorance is the common
place that warbles about on calm
water like a fat and happy swan
certain only that he will neither blow
the trumpet, nor lay breathless
on some rich man’s feast. i yell
into the squirrel-less tree that holds
the pointlessness of a man
full or empty, pissful or pissless or
or or … pissed off.

well done, lyric, you have sung me silent
you have found me between notes
penned me in quietitude, sketched me
held me, loved me, become me there
well rehearsed and versed, and re-versed

oh mad lyric, you have played me sane
you have found me under the melody
la’d me in serenity, strummed me,
touched me, loved me, become me here
well practiced and versed, and re-versed

well done lyric.

One of the many things that most writers have in common is toes. Obviously not all writers, I’m sure there are toe-less writers out there. I mean no disrespect to the toe-less, some of my favorite people have lost at least a couple of toes.

Once, I saw a guy drop a ton and a half of bottled water on his foot and he lost his toes. I don’t think he was a writer at that time, but who knows what has happened in the 20 years since.

My main point here is that writers usually have toes. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Think about that. Just – think about that.

Utopia seems a better choice than oblivion
unless there’s extra black pepper
or possibly mint. I know
many people believe in basil
and nirvana, but I am a fantasy man myself.

nothing says dragon like a bad mix
and a tall whisky straight up.

Perhaps oblivion comes in eleven flavors,
like heaven and hell and all the little rocky steps between
Maybe the impossibility of Utopia strikes a boring note
unless you add bacon or fry it up.

nothing says delicious like bacon
and a quick hot hard deep frying

Whatever the case, I won’t pick either – society
or the soul – I accept that there is no God in government
and no government in God.