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Gone toad hunting, I always get muddy when I am with you, we whisper at the kitchen table between bouts of tea raining down our window vein, brain breaking down in protest and marching Main Street gloriously drunk and shouting sneeze in my mouth please, make me an emblem for disease and ill transparency telemarketing radio personnel on a daily stasis, the homo sapiens field dream to work water and sew sod into cold hard clay, the Easter Day cotton sun dress dance down crackling sidewalk of gravel, wooden paddle stroking the river along as the bank slides by as if it’s the one doing the moving, the shouldering momentum of wet pant bottoms, bells dipped in Sandy Hook Shallow, an elbow for arbor sake, shaky bare footing on the mud bank.  The thunder clad mountain breast bulging the Earth and the day, sailor’s morning nodding nicely as if to say nothing, quoting the echoed codswallop of the crick running over slippery rocks, the foster clock of tricky balancing acts on slack-lines, long-winded grasses reclaim fallen branches, swallow stone cast blithely at dawn’s pinking thrumbus, the robust sunder and sodden songs of the day, turkey-vultures praying in the roadside ditch before the corn field, road runoff gulching gallantly at horse’s speed, daring dash past opal-eyed vision of pearl, searching we find life curled around God’s knotted finger, holy blinking light of living breath, miracle of mind, memory softly forgotten, passed unto the pages of foggy recollection, tempered with evidence of another time nature where I was walking lonely, quiet and abated, along comes a stranger from the East, it is I whom you seek, the noble forest grove fawn set to striking, bucks glancing antlers, grinding on pine heart, heather bone drying down to sediment, relinquishing all former tenements and presuppositions, the position to set oneself standing feet shoulder-width apart, don’t fall apart before we have time to start again less abashed, more centered, lust slated for Tuesday after marsh suffering gracefully as cross-bearing babies and their headless mothers, the other night brigade riling up the wind bends into the sand, the teeth of time clenching lock-jawed and jaundiced, the hunting reminders beating back the barking night, opium flight of rum-runner origin, coppled sin of root decay, foundational collapse under our feet and then, we stop feeling paranoid because we need not live in fear, we steer ourselves by the crown of our head, ecru ribbon tugging firmly up from my spine, separating vertebrae to leave room for the holy spirit sunshine through, woven bamboo forests pulled tightly to the knees, released at the brief moment of weakness, shattered will stretching upward in one last violent rendition of existence, the reluctance to follow buttered bread loaves to their dinner plates waiting gravely on pork-fat kitchen table, fabled foot prints tracked across the tile floor.

Crest

Crows duck the eleventh mourning,

wooden calls perfected by holy Moses

wash the desert off his boots.

Cockled wind dares me to cough

in the Grand Canyon, disappear into oblivion,

endless rock ballad of Dylan and Moby Dick

diaries on ritual father son fishing trips,

ancient dips in a Roman bath-house,

circle swim colloquium of middle-aged minds,

mosaic made in different shades of white,

ecru off and barely apart from Heaven’s

celestial ribbon tugging tautly upward.

Nature’s careworn silk worm

breaks the seal on her chrysalis,

bare naked breath trystless ladles

morning sun water over the ridge

of her hip bones, gold intone and chants

this forevermore in his daydreams

on the back porch, spitting sunflower seed shells

over the banister and into the garden:

hyacinth, huckleberry, and Job,

standing forthright on the chimney,

staring me into grace. 

The homeless talk enthusiastically

about last night’s trashcan bonfire

as if it were the sarcastic nectar of life,

beholden to nothing and no one,

if only in terms of sentiment. 

The resentment of my former selves

is no longer worth waiting on.

Grounded in the hymn of silence—

the resilience of the soul to drive

in the darkest of climates.

Reverie

 

I would sew paper to your face,

hem your brow-line copper.

Your eyes, marble stare, purple vase of years

asking mirrors for pittance.

Veins scale you, mountainous maelstrom,

stands me naked in the night—

minnow forced along Deer Creek,

pockets under the mud crickling,

beetle hunch burrow.

I would dance tables on your back,

web your silken banks.

Usurping grape vine, brass bell and bee,

paling moon strum saves me from the night—

dare me to stare desire red.

Odder things have happened,

dry dirt gets handed out in paper cup stilettos.

Whether those people riding Deer Creek

notice us picking with sticks

the willow cud twinkling,

blackberry inkling shadows.

I would grow through your spine,

tree trunk cotton pace,

taste it on your breath days later

hardly there but glaring—

devotes its time to stall the walls

from climbing in.

Interim

 

The notion that we should be understated is vastly inappropriate.  The course we are grounding on is trembling like a geyser, ready to flow unabated, masturbating fried brains, veiny in the pan, the webbed hand, bat wing, nature’s unwashed blemishes, crevices in Earth’s fracking crust, the crutch of rhyme and rhythm catching up with me again, it’s all so simple, what I lack is any hard sense of finance.  It depends on your definition of productivity.  The sudden reaction of nervous ends, spliced words fending off lyrical demons, frilly-based thought predictions and cataclysmic endings in half-sarcastic fiery death—on one level I stand by it, and on another I contradict myself, the wooden shelf irreverent on the wall, the vagrant crack-whore of Mugatu’s Derelicte campaign.  We took nitrous oxide in a hot-pink balloon and danced around my bedroom naked with the windows flown open, laughing guttural huck-sin, full throated bare chest of May, purple blossoms rising steadily, milking sugared whey in a bowl of blue recycled sunglasses—can I sneeze in your mouth?  We laugh gaily and consider lamely that maybe they can hear us joking about carpal tunnel and downstairs deejays bumping house for hand-washing hipsters, Cadillac driving wishers, catcall and whistle at the traffic on the street, the people that we meet and ask us for a dime, a stupid reference to nostalgia for a time we never knew, Red Scare dawning on the horizon, a sailor’s joy in morning glory springtime return to shore, the White Cliffs of Dover I’ve never seen, but they come to mind.  The awful sheen of skylight window death thrills, monster truck rallies in the smoke kettle alley-way, homeless people fight each other to become a 4G hotspot and wear an orange collar, the color of construction vests, reflective strips protecting thoughts from nobody, the stoned cellar awareness of continuity within the mainframe, a circular rendition of time, lazy black-eyed-susans waving at me from behind, with eyes in the back of my head I can see just fine.  Take out the word “just,” it always justifies—no fucking shit.  The needle prick insulin shot in the buttocks everyday, he’s convinced he doesn’t need it but then he started getting red and sweating heavy, after four days of mass amounts of illegal spiritual substances, tundra fenced in parameters of lollygagging, talking for the sake of walking and hugging a tree because you will say it’s cliché.  I don’t know what kind of tree it was, it was tall and round with bark on it and it needed a hug so I gave it one, where is the fun in cutting one down or carving its skin to something so pointless as a name?  When I ask you, “what time is it?” by the time you reply, time has already passed and we’ve missed our last chance to get a reaction out of our neighbors, this waiting game is endless and sporadic if you catch my drift, I rely on pre-used phrases as a riff, a different pace and tone to distract from what is really going on in the poem.  Why can’t you be forthcoming? 

Document 15

 

I know this road

from the other end.

Powhatan made me

drive out

to Valley Falls:

hear God spit

soliloquies

resounding naked,

with all my clothes on,

the water drawn and sunken

sand pillars:

a garish attempt

at striking civility

haws my life. 

[no title]

I drive the same way that I write.

I met a lady on East German Street with a shepherd named Monkey.

It’s easier than telling the truth.

I’m trying to speak honestly.

Get off the phone and relate face de mono dos tres.

The vacuum is exposing itself.

Combat boots are pulling heavy water up the steeps of rocky memory.

The unsteady river jetty-crushing anthem:

masculine savatory last rights

know better than to get on your knees for a hunter.

The callous unheard wailer chants and groans,

deep-chested heaving, and women never fake it—

at the moment, reading, probly gonna crash soon.

Shenandoah moon, toenails in the mud,

toads beget the fog-wash and howl it in the brush:

soul unwinds, Earth grinds gripple in Her aching bones.

Harmonic Dissymmetry

  

the man i picture is a washer and drier.

a trashcan the wind picks up

grabs my stern attention.

redwood shutters painted blue

bat on white iron shingles.

cliffs dive into the sea,

happily aware of our likeness.

wolf spiders flee floodwaters,

build land-covering webs

over an Australian farm.

fire ants sprout grotesquely

from mucus mud-hills

and feast on nectarines.

tempered brushfire

begs riverbank sand.

russet strum of daybreak

peels wet bark from greasy trunk.

say goodbye to bird voices, wind holy weak.

Spring Flush

Silence rests—uneasy

breath—pressure knits

its hands under my skin.

I prawn—painted

sunlight in a mirror—

ribcage cresting

waves folding origami—

dead bug—happy baby

cradled in Earth’s wings.

Mother Nature’s milk—

coconut silk ribbon—

Release anguish—

relinquish—under Her

bloody beaches—

Normandy wringing

her linens for years.

Desert shore—staring

deaf-dumb—blank horizon

recognizing defeat—

the sun could fall down.

Riverside tree canopy

blankets my body—

limber imbalance—

one side more flexible

than the other—

absolute non-symmetry—

devotion—slightly twisted

mental hair unbraid.

Stalwart dawn melting

sweet grain—pulls-a-pip—

honeysuckle drip of yellow nectar.

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I was feeling the floor tonight

for the fluid revolution of time around God’s handle,

raven in the stable calling never more. 

I couldn’t resist Poe tugging on my big toe and pining me, take me dancing. 

We salter down the melting hall,

leaves throuncing about our buckled feet,

skip the jitters in the frost, and spin the riddle sunken lost,

clocks all tossed from the former bell glass belfry,

bogart nook and copper piping oxidize and rust,

Earth’s crust palpitating madly,

hands entwining sadly spoken thoughts of goodbyes

and tomorrow the sorrowful pause

of love’s parting, happens even among the stars,

little insects smoking danger past desert morgues,

hyper-context after shocks of Rockian grandeur,

metal poison highway dragons mighty and magnificent,

Maleficent gold rimmed leather bat wings beating down the daffled night,

the crippled gin fry, after hours bar fly, soup in my ladle, curry in my eye,

mental spoke wheels turning film reels, light beams swirling,

cosmos unfurling rapidly before me tidal wave momentum,

carbonite theme of righteous motorcade daffodils peeking from the mourner’s plight,

dawn’s first light peaking on the frost, reflected mute and blinding,

patience riding Bell Brook, cycling songs about lady looks,

crooked back roads with no lines and riding through the forest

there’s something about Fawn Grove that makes me bang a u-ee,

Southbound out of town and through the fabled line,

Mason-Dixon cotton flow through corn field meadow,

hay bale cylinders scattered specifically across my belly,

Heaven’s rebeled battle cry, God sighing steadfast, resolute. 

Saint Patricia does not search the answers, she trusts in what they tell me,

thoughts befell me kindly in my time of aftermath driving home form Box Hill,

the Bel Air Mill lit dimly from the rooftop,

Lavalier lady mannequins posing casually on Main Street,

Kimmie Way and Harford Day School,

Christian strawberry fair, free song birds sample March

and rise benevolent sons and daughters of the Holy Father,

anticipated anselm of absolute contrition

just as Poe collapses face down in Bolan’s gutter, puddle of vomit despair,

the moon glares reproachingly at my willingness to move on so soon,

it seems out of tune with good nature,

the state of my face here is sore from laughing with the girl at High’s Dairy Store

about glow stick parties and monsters in the fax machine,

the mental sheen of day tackles my brain waves furiously

to pumiced ground sidewalk, biting pavement,

tasting revenge served spoiled,

tar-ridden soil spilled milk on the chickens,

blackberry pie in the kitchen,

sin sister sidelines of rover and grin-faced,

cold hand-wash, water pumps in Nantahala Forest.

Pressure Release Valve

The season widens a new breadth,

wood pulp passed between my hands.

Notebook osmotic in my camel back,

brackish marrow along Rock Branch Shallow,

water spider dancing on the surface

ripples at the pulses through his spindly little legs:

skinny standing ferris wheel of celestial gratitude.

This gravel allows me to move more quietly,

placing the Indian walker game with myself

tread softly woman, careful not to disturb the rhythm of silence

is hardly without a sound,

the Westward bound heart opening to sun light.

I will linger so long as it shines at me,

winking playfully through the naked tree branches,

box elder climbing stately sycamore.

We used to swing on the lower vines

despite our mothers’ worry warnings.

Parents pass their insecurities onto their children,

which invites the fears they so achingly face

each day of the winter.  The witch hazel shivers,

brown curled leaves chattering on weakened branches

refusing to let go.  We have made it through the darkest night

and sit on precipice of springtime,

the mellow growing song of sloughing snake,

black garter wriggling hurriedly over ground:

rustles ladies out of their eye sockets, shaken.

Sodden forgotten pathways through ancient rocks

that bend like waves are emotions—

this too shall pass with each calming breath.

I stutter clinging to waistline and sunken:

the abject hunker of stolen kettles.

Water once flowed freely about the downed trees

on which fungus grows like oysters on rock belly.

Toad-liver clock falling from proverbial white wall:

barnacles chipped off of boat hull.

Uncanny remnants of deer skin shawls

wrap grandmotherly shoulders around rocky ridge outcrop:

the mid-morning dirge of sacred Sunday learnings,

a reading from the gospel of grass

patches rising warily from holes in the path,

the settled center, depressed at the middle

by a one wheeled vestibule—heart-fueled human nature

defacing the state of our wilderness.

The laughing river at the bottom of the hill:

I can hear it, but the thicket hides my view,

the cricket misnomer combing over old phrases reprised—

at least a thousand offers at revision,

provision stocked soup-can riches for the apocalypse

is less dramatic than we envision,

moves gradually under toe and webbed foot

fighting off tornadoes consume the Midwest.

I swallow the hardly hollow mention

of telephone poles sticking out of the woods,

mocking my attempt to turn off my cell

and descend into some Whitmanian sub-terrain of consciousness.

The blossoming dissonance

of irresolute humans and our walking sticks,

the superfluousness of hoarding sustenance like a troll bridge,

the holding fast to crisscrossing paths.

All I can control is my muscle movement,

steady the downward walk and jagged talk of sensual pen strokes,

the bare mention of hand stokes me into overload,

the whole tennis-shoe load of constant friendship

with Mother Earth—all I need,

sad and smiling in the same simple gesture of blowing wind.

Stop to stewardess Her moss garden

and go running down dry river bed—

this was all submerged at one point,

a massive quarry, over time whittled down to stumps.

Oak tree bumps dare me kindly, climb me waving upward,

poison sumac sinking in surly between the bark,

the carved marks scarring forearm into letters:

something so pointless as a name.

Travelers come to trespass their thorough troubles

on the wood embankment,

yearning fresh-eyed and widening bleary

to understand the wisdom of water:

it finds a new path when a child throws a rock in it,

the river picks up, without thought of gravity,

the habits of Jesuit nuns and chanting monks:

slanted rocks turn black to better attract the sun.

[untitled]

With will and salt water,

washing brown sweat from his crown

after kissing the ground: an ancient sailor,

saintly siren saying no to senseless warlords

and selfish entitlement,

first night rights and baptismal desert wash,

holy mirage of sustenance,

sun blistering fingers, numb brutality spanning centuries of reality

as if it were all a drop fallen plum cheek,

humming recklessly, wheat-flour and water for dough,

the window cracked warily, burlap curtain breathing lazily,

pulling air from the dim one-room floor and five children.

She keeps nustling egg shells and rebel contraband under her sheets,

watching all night, sitting back upright to the wall and facing the door

waiting for men to pour in like the rainy season

knocking her jaw off, sawing the locks off the door

falls to the dirt floor in a rusty cloud,

mocks resounding prayer calls broadcast from pirouetting minarets,

centrifugal tapestry of gold filigree landed about her waist,

facing up to the Heavens, heart and arms open

her hands are tree limbs that change species:

today she is a brushfire,

a metal adjunct of dispensation quarterly,

half-life mitochondria are the building blocks around her city,

her sacrifice hidden hair houses tim.e 

Falling plaster crusades in sandstorm fury,

blast wall graffiti victory over the faces of empty bookcases of once-before-men,

and then the sky opened up and God said, good luck,

carry this with you as a token of Love,

your generosity is in the hands of forget-me-nots and towering rifles,

rippling ozone visions of ziggurat,

one camel shot, it’s head turned inside out

so with two youngest perched on single hump,

three walking beside her,

the dry heave of migration and hundreds of them when we zoom out,

the nondescript weaving and circular patterns in which the birds fly.

It takes a long time for geese to make the vee,

they stumble unsure, circling the same map twice more

before taking off again and out of eye socket,

trembling locket clenched tightly in her breast pocket,

day blue chadri pleated neatly—

the last ironing takes it to the wind,

the mindless rapport of bullet and man,

woman travels tirelessly to live on for children,

pregnant Earth held up by her own two legs,

wood mixing bowls of raisins and doday

to pass around the nighttime makeshift encampment,

settling down inside one round tent together

each mother cries a part of its burden

but rests better with the knowledge of comfort in her sisters.

Shortwave radio transmits illegal song,

joyous ouds and throaty chorus of live opus,

natural ovation of bug-clickers,

midnight inside safety and sorrow,

forgotten wings spread sodden morning glow

across the sable faces, babies heart re-growing,

nature’s scent unfurling medicinal mother’s blood and sage,

wisdom of age seeks valley and progenitor,

change and sigh—preventing war from happening to us again,

when men cease lying and speak to one another,

borrow his neighbor’s shoes

and return them clean of crusted mud

spent the afternoon wading through muck puddles

too embarrassed to call for help

waited for fabled fisherman on punt,

angling waver in the distance, pole pivoting the flat-bottom craft in the sun.