[untitled]

keep on

fight the good fight

that we will rise up again

the brain goblins feast

i have nothing left to say that excites

i am lost in the language

the right

never more specific

than street lamps                         

go out when i drive under them

mountain tunnel collapses

barack obama eats my bones

picks his teeth            with righteous plastic

petroleum                        patronizes me for minimum wage

msnbc                        fox news

roll credits                        silent film                        noir

made in a modern age                        of computer parts

         gmo’s

i’ve got whiplash                         in my fingers

                                    crutches

the old blackfeet Indian man

wine drunk on a goat                        through the city

calls himself a box

stuffs reality             in his hoodwink

            see this scar above my eyebrow?

            the one with the most scars wins

i don’t understand

what it is about men and violence

as if this endless retaliation

will solve something—

it won’t

a woman’s body is not a knife

is not a parachute or a diamond

do not liken me to desert

no matter how sweet you intend

i do not like lemon meringue

you can call me mountain lion

buttermilk

divine feminine

beauty

above all things                        love

but never in this yellow ecstasy

will one of us claim dominance

dare we claim our own bodies?

the wooden attic  already has us

a giant chessboard

queen on like color                                                king crown her side

with laurels

twined between her ribcages

Mother Mary me

the ocean you carry                                    across your shoulders

water bucket yoke

     astride mine

you kiss me in the yard

you stop chopping wood

wipe your brow                                                look at me

                                           emerging

your beard is grizzly

you sweat

you can see your breath

hyphenate

with each axe                         down

pluck goose feathers

but only take one from each flock

let them save better for winter than us

                       

you beautiful man                                    brown Ozark bear

growl each morning

stretch your lungs awake

curly headed word herder

no sheep for prayer

           

no crying here

in the dust between God’s broom bristles

leap on

fight the good night

that we will rise up again

strike resistance                         on the dead highways of America

hitch hike to Vegas            where girls walk the strip

trip johns

faster than foreplay in the alley

behind the dumpster

umbilical dance

kraken

get so

by forgetting their mothers.

Constantinople

this is no place for words

here

in the hallow

pines elder

fall to come

down

by the crick

side slipping

over rock tome and day—

            you have to answer God’s riddle

            to cross the bridge to my family’s lake

walk over water

know my bell.

            summon me

                                    dear Jesus

we will make love

and shake Heaven from the stars

overflow the universal container

with our blood

viscous

            transformative

mercury

            makes us mad

with top hat fever—

Québécois hiver

questions our queer compulsions

half naked winter

this August

mulls on our youth—

                        will you marry me?

you have already carried my hand

through the darkest mile

in the hours before dawn

you feel natural

undeniable

you blind men with no eyes

            holes

                        where God would be

            flags

                        to mark their triumphs

                        over His great pasture.

Mother Mary’s hair is sacred

in His temple

            we steward

            careful

tend the pure dirt

as our child

Bible borne of me

come screaming

between my Holy Trinity

            divine triangle

            in utero

                        placenta

                        devoured

upon expulsion—

ravenous green devil

beside us

the delivery room

waits

in the hospital

for each new born socket

            to announce their presence.

on the hill

Jesus practices

his weekly sermon

on the birds

            they warn him of Rome—

He will go in peace

to suffer the sea of a thousand arrows.

the spiritual realm is fragile too

the last red drum

over Ghana.

Steel Railing

the canyon

            eighteen miles

forgot knapsack—

            beware of his Kerouac

don’t nustle

            the rabid pews

change                        lanes

            on the bypass

Joseph and I take the path

            of forgiveness

butterflies in prayer

            kneeling

                        wings

on copper wire—

who does that anymore?

the canyon

            doctor asleep

                        in the back seat

            summer hawk

            nowhere

bends the sky blue

            my iris

side street—

                        lost

in colloquial lake

laying naked beside us

the last

            good man

                        a working poet—

noon

                        a couple years

hung                        or shot

on Pearl—

what is the nature of misinformation?

barren opal guise of God

painted in Long’s Peak basin

gutted brain belly

                        exposed

as jelly fish—

            the ocean

does not compromise

            width for substantial evidence—

                        the canyon

                        with two

            headlights

red rider gun transmission

hob goblin in the cockpit

cat woman drives high

through rock fall

road paint and mountain lion.

the radio eludes us

the canyon

the old

take Heaven’s granite tollbooth

the big book—

                        what will our names say?

            sun is pertaining

            to the fire place

cold embers

mark off time

in hash-tag landmarks

metal skeleton mailbox

            immobile

            on the crest of coming hill—

            climb up us

                        the canyon

            the cold night rises each mile—

Grok

the temporary rhizome

spreads leafless tranquil

over Rocky Mountain up drafts

dirt switch back

gravel pack rats make camp

rustle with squirrels

nag chomp head wind

hatch the dawn

comes from the West.

oaky morning brew

joe on the balcony

smiling at the yellow horizon

purple ribbed jewel

of the sun

            negligent            careless

            of the known—

do not matter

                        when fall begets

                        my burlap back sap

nature’s tap

on my cold weather still

grinds the grizzly gone to Wyoming

lumberjack passes

between and under mountains

crick simple

mouth water

and candle

sage, time            red ribbons

wrapped about its body

bread                         to suffer

burning castle wood

rock and clay—

i eat Earth intravenous

silver hibiscus liquid

Mercury, Mars

and Venus

my mother, between us

and the sun.

be at peace

and lay down beside me

when you are 20 hours away—

this last clock                        square

on the mantle

and in my parent’s kitchen

in Maryland

                        the same one here

and what does it say?

the laws of man

                          are suspended

in the pale Milky Way

                          bowing to the night

subtle candor

                        blinking barely

at the soft swatch of hair

straying from my habit—

the last thing i want

is to be left here

when the cold drum comes

to pound parade ranks

down our Berlin guns.

mountains bud their berry canyons

raccoons sweep their patios

     clean their paws

hands, with opposite thumbs

to unlock the front door

is sideways—

                        this end up

because            pipe lines

            are fragile.

rachet the hatches

and seal down the mattress

to the cold metal floor

the studio, the cabin

the cave in which to hibernate

sunder heartily

the winter

the sun                                the snow

            break through

the fog                         of Clydesdale horses

triumphant

                        in our broad wools

knitted hooves

                        cradle cobblestones

over dead bone cobwebs

closets                        and ancestors

wrapped up in the basement

the soot fireplace

resilient                        stalwart

fortress                        blue

cement building blocks

mark the eye from the dirt long driveway

Douglas Fir pinecones

open from the Fort Collins fire

50 miles away

black smoke rings

laced with moth wing

and moon rocks.

Mary unlocks the fetters

on my toadstool brain

sends rain down the canyon

to fill up the valley

b‘fore we can flood ourselves out to be saved.

Sacrum

deep in the Earth

where spirits go to die

no white men are allowed

but they invited him

to speak of sinking cities

the mountain range

a lotus open for ages

dragon blood

seaweed

clots the north shore

redder                       

silver fish shoals

wink

at the north star

the asteroid belt

a blasted planet

whose inhabitants

mine us for gold

and semen

Stonehenge

Bermuda Triangle

negative energy

ions tossed objectively

into granite quarry.

[untitled]

life doesn’t mean much here.

18 killed             in a holy

                  hall of worship—

when does your self

come into your time?

hung up             on divine chores,

damp                         from the drying line.

whenever you listen

you don’t disregard—

you acknowledged me

with hands

behind

my back

lumbar support—

maybe i’m rooting my heels in today.

did you see that?

you thought

it was getting darker

and then the porch light comes on.

make ultimate statements

about beauty

if you want

can you qualify it?

                                  quantify

dervish fireflies

in the mood dark

breadth                        archaic

in its countryside.

another glass moon

passes through the shadow

word and light

stomp the roof.

life doesn’t mean much here.

the mountains’ power

 the patch

 of the sea

shining glory

passing defeat

on the yellow brick freeway—

the cause of living

in the past

is dying in Richmond.

Somalian mothers

clutch babies

       demand justice

       to be not forgot

never repeat

the same song.

corn refuses to grow

in Jamestown—

ask why?

now

do i still speak

in a room full of men—

i can’t make

the torch fire

i can’t smile

his perverted chin religion

he smites my strength

a squirrel in a blender

screeching                         screwdriver

electric                         phrastick

            red ruby guitar—

more                        is Jesus

down God’s fated stairway

to speak to us

in prostrate humiliation—

this is not the way.

my Father            

would have me leave you

tattoo your bone marrow

in hieroglyph pennies—

out                                                I love you,

life doesn’t mean much here.

[untitled]

No more poetry—

all this creative nonsense

makes me want to break shit.

Roark in the stone quarry

Dominique, the jackhammer

on her fireplace hearth

the open window

her father listens in

secretly enjoying

the sound of his daughter’s moans

crying over self             abandon—

wreck me

beat me

I crave your attention

like a sheep

a woman

defeated—I’ve lost

the theme on purpose

I’m sick of sticking to the single stream.

Why do I care if you misunderstand me?

I’m an asshole

and you’re a dick—

it became this thing with him

where he stopped asking permission.

I was a wrench

never saying no

because it might hurt him—

do you know

why you cannot come

to my back door?

The screen was busted out

long before I met you

caressed you longing

that you might read my mind

and hold me a little more—

I don’t care what God does.

I am not Him.

Punctuation is litter—

I like it.

I toss cigarettes, lit

out the window—

fuck the fire ban

hazard

warning—this other knockoff

Jim Morrison thinks I want him

like a cat in heat,

some such masculine bullshit—

take your gunpowder

and semen

and shove it

where the sun dies.

I am sick of lying beggars

who try too hard

and ask me twice for change—

I will still say no.

I want to put my head

through the cement

in Roark’s bedroom.

I am her, laughing at myself

my position within this

perceived world of dominance

men                        and churches

monuments            to phallacy—

I want to wrecking ball

the halls of Congress

poetic terrorism

in Boulder alleys

where trust fund kids

graffiti shitty replicas

of gang tags—

how much did those kicks cost

and do you know why

you throw them over the power lines?

You will never kill anyone.