What he didn’t know would fill a silo with stone catties.
What he drinks will kill more than he knows.
the tickling stink of it gave the reasons needed to move on
when convictions failed like Easter's kite:
that bundled-up day of still breath
hanging in front of Lord's Prayer Lips.
Just enough snow to piss the oldest one's name into, hoping
good spelling brings her closer than the string lets out—
the same field all queen Anne's after the thaw. for now,
it covers her medicinal pale shoulders
once touched, trembling, in the turn-about steps of the play
we were kid-hired to dance and throw each other around
in the lace, not the field
Brittle now, the dog's still frame is more like both; and in them, too.
Where to dig if gone back...to the field?
surely, the hedgerows are edging on deceit
with new stones and old ones
a different color than thought possible
to yield labor and piles of unknown against frozen skies
Ash & Hemlocks' imminent deaths
That White Man
To a sidewalk that begs for more than we can afford, he asks the same but not the same.
Pulling cranes to erection, his unbalanced lip flesh tells us of drivel.
That White Man
The Shed out back
Old tarps caught the blood
they could be hosed down
sparing stained gravel
two-by ran the perimeter
Dad built it.
Four-inch slab roughened
Hickory’s elbows, then Bailey’s together
until he was put to sleep buried in near-frozen ground
with my brothers tossing lime
A family affair hung from rafters by hind legs.
Metal scent still lingers for coyotes’ and coydogs’ delight.
The kennel was great for climbing
with foothold at three feet
to next rung
step to roof
five pitch to fifteen; unwalkable unless hopped over
only an eight-foot drop to buckle knees
under the antlered north face.
Burn barrel out back
the out back
melting plastic bags of tissues, maxi pads, chicken skins and other usuals.
There was no fire when Matt forgot
his keys. His scarf
was used to wipe his ass for the afterschool shit. Christmas lights on the spruce
and his hands tried to keep my feet warm. I don’t know
if the scarf was burned or washed.
Uncle George put the eyeballs in his mouth once.
Word drinker to a skyline blinking past
where You sat and I, lichen,
or weed for a salt clutch
against brick and not brick made
but breathed by resin sacs
This must be your tablet scribed simple;
they were poor then
bruising through rapidity forgotten
cuz of wanton thirst.
longer fresher breath
one of my gifts stored in June’s coming.
If water were smoke I’d wax the bulb to waft
All away to screens’ dim phosphorescents.
waiting for silent thoughts gliding rhythmless
move, past Burnt Hill & Oval Lake
It tells of our elevation: This perspective
what state, what river
once pressed its heels here where
becomes ours to Buzz and Crank and throw
but complain when the pictures fail us?
Everywhere is Here and the water dries soon enough
that nothing gets wasted only air
in its efforts to resist our intake
a dancer fool knows only the two places—Of light and of Not a thing
if i outrace its erraticism
a planet moves and becomes ground for paper wings’ wet glass
West Desert Highway
aphoristic fuck-me-yous after motor oil heat
dry tongue shout but nothing
what if this is our settle?
laze for always that thing in your neck
still hanging from range to basin
her death rattle came as a fart of the highest regard
over driven ties rumbled rotting lettuce for ice lacking
they bring the grid rotating c(r)o(r)ps(e)_(s)—
head back to your older new
clear water skin and shims corrugate barn roof
longer pantheon of hay
make feel authentic, look!
let me drink it
alien versus predator
my eggs no one without
stamens nearly twice
the size forest
fog knee high a third moon’s refract feels its ocean giving the sky
cantilevered hull siloing space ring—worm spore accident waiting
whose borders are these triangles aiming at
kill all the lights
slick glare framed dog teeth matte
from years as trophy’s triumph too long missing its face
don’t play coy, parachute
remember central america and sham mud
i love you to Death
je t’aime à Mourir aussie
named Thor was hot for—
measuring thirty-six tall
no way to stop him
But by fist
to halt what kid gate
could not keep out
The dew claws
young back moles
rhythmatic dog hump
who must have died
years long past
with no sound
but warm dirt thump puffs
The elixir was one-hundred
and one proof of
taste not known
to make a dead man come back saluting four guns’
ash of George put
where he worked
his hand to a rock
sway through all that distance.
Why are you so happy to see?
You sound like a squirrel but turn out to be a mini- van: Cheap tricks
take as far as an open closet
Red cup near where? Your speaking Chinese is cute
admitted rosemary on red dots lower than usual.
night couples constant the walk
to stop following atop sargent walk
with cross-strap blouse
what game is it with four strings on four corners?
Those beams splaying across
we can’t drag our toes or we get them wet.
what it feels like to climb a hill.
The guard has praise for our tennis team. How grave.
Trembling spotlight without nerves
potholes and washboard show Kilgus those eyes.
Jawa or deer? joke.
Funnier bullets are colors to sting where tomorrow
kill with real ruger won in lottery
passed on through christmas tree
to a steady aim at twelve
really wanted your badass camo pickup
and sly smile
a step ahead scheming to paint ‘n Fuckin’ R on the side
or stories at every bar of the time —
wrapped in wet toilet paper and set yourself on fire?
You’ve shot more animals than anyone.
Duke knocked up more dogs than any other.
You work more hrs/wk than all pills and booze want.
How many times have you said the ord?
I, the naked fisherman, floating behind the canoe, laughed when you warned of the sucker fish; it made me fear all I can’t see in the water.
I’ll drive the lower woods from Lembeck’s
but keep close to the road so they don’t head over to Botella’s
they’ll start firin’ at anything that moves
sit up at the edge of Farrell’s pond
Dad’ll take the ridge here’s my seat don’t shoot the house
Mom always wears orange when she walks the dogs during deer season. So do the dogs.
You kicked em out right to me
buck and doe stopped in front of the house
got clear when they heard the uneven steps
through where the pond drains
first time I shot
at deer running
dropped with pinhole behind ear we didn’t find until skinned
no blood but from guts
under eyes over peach fuzz cheeks
I still smell warm metal
no luck now for any of us
front leg dangling but sprint unbroken
we found him two hundred yards down in DaCosta’s field
bedded in thicket licking what I did
I had to shoot twice in the ribs looking for lungs or heart
just a look at us when we made it
to his side unable to go but still breathing
you pulled out your knife - the one I have now in a box in my basement - and cut his throat
but it just changed
where the air came out
your remorse at this killing.
I’m always amazed at how far you can walk with just one human foot.
Reach to each finger tip
and tell height-horizon.
To rocks and stalks.
Chip board in two; perimeter tango.
I can see that space better when I’m laying down
counting up through limbs
take me to the one I can jump
from. Branch bare
where boy palms wrung you
a swing near sap
pant leg bound will never stop. Grass is
just as sparsely covered.
Everything raw and awkward. Jackson Hole was beautiful at fifteen.
Cross country Bonneville to rollerblading
Check in then escape to parking lot. Oval paths good for a hundred laps
‘til blank sky pulls all
asphalt acrid heat out of too big Santa Fe chili tee.
Wing dings and root beers
where backseat snacks fuel fou- wheeled legs. Regular shitting long distant remembered.
Las Vegas palm trees near pool’s white vinyl lounges.
Cheapest because of Dad’s AARPdiscount.
this is the darkest hour
the darkest one
i used to climb trees at this time
i was young
Sweetly burning ash wash
directions to limbo
looking for rope always swaying
stand overhead doesn’t even silhouette
though, well known, it’s only
six pegs up stump to the left, or right?
set distance forgotten when shadows
too weak don’t stretch
with me it’s fine
only confusion in the lights of the world
savored darkness leaves landscape
form meaning here where forgetting welcomes
all who can plan
words saved for the other hours.
long for certainty
keep these skies
kiss the owls
Hemlock trunks and limbs sticky forearms blue jay calls & black crows
Shale blue grey ridges car parts swamp hollows
midsection moist of woolen rest
and itch even in this weather
the dirt can float
Living room leftovers stack themselves in a tree edging Gober’s field.
We call it a Condo.
Two by four ladder climbs, too.
A new view.
Always quiet, mostly scanning
the calm cold starts its
meal at toes. Fingers
next. Back of neck loses heat.
Count from one to one hundred thousand
obediently timing centennial intervals.
From a mile away, hear the screen door snap shut on home’s north face.
Sound travels fast through this still air staying closest to the frozen earth.
Twenty feet above, become the ground by nine
even grey clouds by ten
three inch galvanized screws at noon.
The chickadee and scent of Bill’s oversized overalls over Uncle George’s Canadian boots
all cold and counting up in thin layers.
Dad asks if I saw the coyote. “No,” I say thawing over dashboard defrost.
melting errors in a clavicle mishap
terribly Nonetheless calloused
gentleman in heat, appalling
please he protested. Heaven
prone girls in hardware irrational
Intelligible terrified when
I wave true the second dying Could be worst
Form girl hands
Elements will be missed
August police room. Ghost
banker rats better contract Solitude
president wetland. In blue,
telling self parts
for the bony.
She kills electricity made of—
of drowning email send an email even
little dirt plaid shirt face takes in more human
my breasts cower. distance the nearest statistics of You
could anyone understand
taste like The miracle
before spasm makes light
Last Day of January
She questions his motives;
he’s cutting back on bread.
A rear tire slowly leaks;
Pennsylvania winters are hell for undercarriage.
Long lines pace;
a man with chocolate cookies smiles at them.
No motor vehicles;
but a car reshapes benches.
The streetlamp stands over two young men;
one says uper frois.
It waits on the kitchen counter;
the backpack’s color is marsh green.
He turns to the north star’s pink flick for forgiveness;