Cornelius finds his grace
I am curious genius
Fell turtle
I clean the public urinal
Stop waxing philosophical
is what I say
While things are going bad
“solo la muerte”
You and I will root the urinal one scrawl at a time.
My mama wore a white veil and was near virginal
You look near virginal
Or you might be an experiment designed to satisfy my
failures.
Dreams beat some
Elda Little Puppy is preparing her third vodka carefully.
A tense, tight performance with no extraneous
movements. In this atmosphere a blink is meaningful.
She blinks twice rapidly and peers at me. This must
mean something if I could only decode it. I am still. By
the end of her drink she has dissolved and reanimated
loud and undisciplined. She might just have a thing for
me. I’ll remain still and quiet and end up outside under
the moon.
“Listen, Elda Little Puppy has a thing for you. I’m not
telling you you can’t do her.”
And?
“You listen. You’re a kind of poet, right? You look at
me in that way that says you are.”
pshaw. Indian poets got it easy, man.
Driving Myst Crazy
Bank left! Bank left!
Aaaaaaah!
Watch out for that squirrel!
I am traveling deep inside you. Relax control. Let go of
your steering wheel.
Am I crazy?
Furthermore, do not think. Let go now.
I cannot be crazy. I’m reading the manual 107 ways to fix
a flat.
Now move into mediocre. Get ready to shift into
passingly fine. That’s right. Leave it here for a
while. You can drive as fast as you want but the bridge
is out.
And you? You don’t die with me, bitch?
Only while I care. You’ll see me again. You’ll get
glimpses of me like the vaporizing rivers on the road.
Why fight it?
Cry for me while failing still slaps. Laugh for me,
darling, while my losses mount stallions and ride
splendidly away. It’s not so much
A fall…
Pale, while buckets o’ rivets clang
As a point of junction, your honor
Third world resources readily
Mangled by elves,
Timberwolves, muskrats,
Assorted and assembled god creatures devoid of ego
Assisted suicide die.
Corporate thieves bugaboo,
Gigolos, Judge Bigalow. Crime chiefs.
Directionary settling mercenary duck dreams
Find their way to
Snooze news filters
And I object.
Please keep your comments succinct
Most of my observations follow
The mechanics of logic only.
My mind’s minions, theoretical nouns, constantly hide
Around and behind my constructs.
I have one billion billion ways to avoid anything like
this
And come out singing like a pistil.
Telegram to Crazy Horse
The war is over now. Stop.
I don’t recall who won.
Spring
Apple blossoms and lilacs
Those delicate shylocks.
Details in rehabilitation
Heavily fortified
Words (sounds) words (sounds)
Come at some cost to
Riches.
Usually a sunny day takes the place of simple
communication
It’s a ratatattat ghost of
Trala
It usually happens
My favorite time of day
Is legerdemain
Sunset, gloaming
So eagerly
I cannot wait
I eye
The slash bud
Sounds
Rooted in E minor
Pay special attention to the B and A strings
This is not mood range
But thumbs my discordant
A moment pause
To tell you
Where I am
My temperature
Fahrenheit 90s
In the small side of a mountain’s back
It’s probably cloudy and cooler where you are
But I don’t care if I can’t play guitar
I make desire invisible.
Spring again
The blossoms fall as missy
As my neighbor’s niece
They don’t last long with the lilacs
In this messy May
The breeze is precious until
A cloud covers the sun
And it blows off more blossoms
And looses the niece’s bun
With a shake of the pear tree
And her head her hair is free
Once more to roam my thighs.
I will call myself Running Beer
I am stuck in this Death Valley
The wheels spin gravel, which pepper me in the face
When you’re like me and have no ethnicity
To speak of
You need larger themes that leap beyond the ancestral
grief.
Indian poets have it easy.
Ugh.
“When you come down off that cross I want to talk to
you.”
I’m about down off it now. Crucify me.
“You don’t get so special a category. You’re more like a
back-alley body discovery.”
But it’s easy for you, Indian poet, you’re already dead.
You have the extermination of an entire culture to lean
on.
“Patience.”
Spring runs out and gets some coffee
As the barn leans but stands catching glimpses
Recorded words clothe it in hazy shared experience.
Just then Stiff Davis and his magical film crew were
coming back from the forest in the valley where they
had spread axle grease on a fairy princess virgin who
was encased in candle wax. But the rains, they said, the
clouds had swarmed and competed, rolled under the
dread naught clover, lily, pumpkin, and rice.
