rage has a way of awakening
the sacred fiery feminine within me
i suppose i should be accepting of flippant
dismissals and easily broken
plans(promises)

after all, it is what is expected of my gender—
to be silently accepting
to be smiling and forever forgiving
to be blind to your *******.

but I’m not that kind of *****.

the waters of many rivers flow in my veins
over the rocks and thorns that are growing inward in my inner darkness
wise and warrior women of my past lives swim in these brackish tides and they
are having none of your **** today

there is a predator that hunts in the base of my skull
that loves to feed on

boys {I would say ‘friends’ but none of you are deserving of that title}
like
you

through heavy breaths and gasps between too hot sobs this creature is released
and it reminds me
with the worst of pain
that i
am stronger than you
that i
am stronger than anything within your petty soul

we’re all made of energy and mine is too bright to be diminished by the likes of you

while i feel worthless and want to destroy myself
{because the easiest way not to feel
is to bring blood,
to bring forth ribs,
and cheek bones, and burns—— for the longest while I thought the fault lied within myself, that I was worthless and disposable, but now I see that I’ve only been attracted to the weaker breed of human because you are easy to manipulate. You were stupid enough to consider my compassion a license to abuse my over giving heart}

this animal keeps me in line, holding my hands within its claw riddled appendages
tight enough to bring blood, holding me still until my cries turn into war songs
my frantic heart beats into the sound of war drums.
my tears become paint streaking my face, readying me for another battle.

the scorpion ever present in me rises, barb dripping with the poison
my tongue would love to lay into your psyche

but you aren’t worth my words.

my words are my livelihood and nothing i could say could
every arouse any interest nor care from such a small minded individual as yourself
whose ambitions are the small fractions of debris beneath my scarred feet.

in this holy and reverent cold I thought I needed the warmth of companions, but I realized I was skinning myself raw to cover others who would only ***** out the flame keeping me alive.
my heart thrives in this harsh season and the skeleton of the scorpion comes alive in solitude.

the warrior woman within me is reborn this night.
she has watched my neglect and has pulled me into her armed embrace
and tells me through stoney and unforgiving eyes

that you were never worthy of my radiance

Hanging out new to the scene
So often wonder what that means
As I sit in front of the world's screen
Started in on ...Googling

I typed in a single word
Pressed enter for the Google search
Took me down the path absurd
Where all the lines were blurred  

From there I ventured off the path
Wish I'd known there's no turning back
Marveled at the knowledge that I lack
Like how to whittle your own baseball bat

Just in case you're wondering
Midgets don't melt in the rain
Who doesn't think that that's insane
As I dive deeper into Googling

The art of bathing a Hindu rat
Skinning a two-headed Siamese cat
The taking of the perfect nap
Standing up while keeping your lap intact

How to delicately pierce a Rhino's ear
Dressing up then down a deer
50 different ways a man can cheer
While toasting his favorite Micro beer

Abstract art using cotton *****
How to paint between the lines on paisley walls
Teaching Yankees how the South says ya'll
Lost episodes of the show called Lost

Food served upon the world's menus
Even specialties from Timbuktu
Why the sea is green and the sky is blue
As my googling madness continues

More artwork this time with the jam of toes
How to pick your friends but never your friend's nose
Cleaning of the house without a stitch of clothes
The whole time being careful with the vacuum hose

80's Hairbands I used to like
That now know what bald feels like
Making a homemade Hindenburg kite
One that lands this time

How to handle midlife like a man
Taking a survey of what you could have been
Raising Spider Monkey's  in the comfort of your den
As I keep on Googling

I now find myself Googling out in front
As I'm Googling from behind
Googling up as I'm Googling down
To the left and to the right
I've learned how to gargle Google
That's a well known Google fact
And if you don't believe me
You can even Google that

We all gather here
Young old fat thin wealthy poor
Voluble or quiet
Shy or maybe bold
Even princess but no prince
No matter

We all write silent songs

Some saunter in
Bulging pockets stuffed with
Words
They pull out at random
Glue to the old chalk board in
Confusing stinking chaos
Then they name it poetry
They insist you must read

Perhaps they serve a garden salad
Leafy words already in decay
Which they sniff like aged cheese
And pair with white wine

Others fold origami poems
Engineered with wings
Toss them at you
Boeing planes of paper
That always bank awry
Crash into other words
Made mountains made seas

A few possess talent
Make memories into magic
Slip sly notes from desk
To desk
Where sly mouths silent
Smile back their pleasure
In the read

Here are writers who can write

All that kicking in the third
Trimester, about which
Mother proudly whined
Was nothing more than writer’s block
Ill temper in the little one
Writing and writing
Writing in the womb

Here are masters of the craft
Carpenters of line of rhyme
Plumb-bobbed poems
Straight and true

Like hypnotists on stage
Journeymen and women poets
May put you in a trance
While they sit at a distance
Safe before a desk
Not even wearing pants

They can make you laugh
At nothing
Make you weep with
Made up sorrow
Ask you count your chickens
Today and tomorrow
Make notes in the ledger
Only you can see to borrow

Yet

It ain’t no game
They can write serious
For serious people
They write of life’s big moments
Pick and choose the details
To whittle on
Bring emotions down to size

Sick with love afraid you’ll lose
That woman of mercury moods
Instead you marry algebra
An equation of partnership
New stresses multiply her storms
New threats to leave
Forever - forever free of
Love’s demands

Screams from the birthing bed
There’s the
head of a daughter
You hold her with new love
So strange, unknown, skinning knife sharp
This love……
You hasten to a toilet
To retch

A circle formed of childhood friends
Circled round a bottle Boys
Of aged Kentucky bourbon
For me it holds grave gravity
Drink a dram down my friends
Then another then another
Let us toast my dear dead Mother

A new job, new staff, new friends
Your marriage took a sideways slide
A big down and almost out
Employee Becky
Hands you her business card
Hand written- If you need anything-
Anything at all - call on me
Danger there……
And who doesn’t enjoy a little
Danger?

Do we write our own eulogies?
**** straight we do
Who better, huh?

So go fling some ash
Search my will for cash
Long ago
Such lies I wrote
Such praise I heaped upon
Myself
You may well wonder
Did they burn the wrong body?

Dark terrorism creeping
Across the world in flood
Lacerating peace of  mind
And soaking us in blood,
Indiscriminately mauling
Targets they perceive
Will further their ambition
Of global dominance and greed.

A mother tears her bodice,
Her moans, a hollow sound,
Her family caste about her
Shredded by a mortar round.
Little children in the playground
Mothers shopping in the mall,
Mullah’s kneeling, praying in the mosque
A car bomb kills them all.

How’s it hanging Tony Blair,
Have you enjoyed your breakfast yet?
Felt inclined to visit far Kashmir
In your speedy, private jet?
It’s murderous in Kashmir
And has been for a while
For, still, India and Pakistan
Throw lethal bullets, bombs and bile.

And Beruit is as dangerous
As the Lebanon can be,
Iran is building maelstrom
Feared by Jews eternally.
The I.R.A. Still loathe the Brits
Koreans hate the ****
The Russians distrust everybody
(Especially Chechun rats.)

El Queada is stateless
They attack across the board
From Washington to New York
To Indonesia’s tropic shore.
America’s a fortress
But still fighting foreign wars
Whilst China sits inscrutably
Nursing Tibet’s cuts and sores.
Islamic fundamentalists
Throw Jihad to Israel
And Israel tears at Hammas
Did they steal the Holy Grail?

The beauty of a little girl
Her skin as smooth as silk,
Expression in those calm brown eyes
Is as innocent as milk.
Because she lived in Gaza
Her tomorrows are depraved
By an A.K.47 shell
That despatched her to her grave.

Who are the good guys?
Who are the bad?
What part of this unholy mess
Is anything but mad?
All invoke the righteous stance
God is on our side!
Each engage this hideous dance
And foreign God’s deride.

Ripping, skinning, blasting, killing
Terrorists do lurk,
Spreading fear across the globe
Intentionally, is their work.
Taking citizen’s by the throat
And slashing with a blade
To leave their mark indelibly
On countless corpses laid.

Dogma, ideology
The mantra is obscene
Because the minions who perform these tasks
Are usually quite clean,
Their mentors are the instigators
Enmeshed within the code
Of obsession, faith and bigotry,
All adhere to this dark road.
Obsessed with racial hatred,
Obsessed by loathing greed,
Obsession ruled by God alone
Jihad, Fatwah decreed!

Pray tell me noble man of prayer
Where is your God in this?
Pray tell me any one out there
HOW DOES THAT GOD EXIST?

Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
6th March 2009

We catch the sunset
while eating
breakfast: ignoring
mothers, ignoring
landlords, skinning our knees
and skipping supper,
using the kitchen with some
improvisation, forgetting to stir
the pasta, blotting bacon
with coffee filters,  
flinging linguini on the walls
and the ceilings (for
if cooked it will cling
but if raw it will fall).
“Is that pasta on the wall?”
“Is it purple?”

Outside a boy
in a dress shirt and a girl in
a paisley skirt walked past
the window, holding hands
and clutching palm
Sunday leaves.

Then the strand of linguini
began to detach itself from
the ceiling, like a break dancer,
with flimsy limbs,
and when it dropped
it fell through the air
like an Olympic
diver, twirling and curling
with two ends clung
to one another
and then unfolding
underwater.

Gravity is not my friend.
It forgets from time to time
To do its job and keep my two feet
Planted firmly on the ground.
I can’t seem to get around
Invisible stumbling blocks,
Tripping over my own two feet,
Knocking into things just by
Walking in a straight line.

Gravity is lazy,
Wanting only to do the bare minimum.
It makes my chest feel heavy when
I lay down but if I close my eyes
I feel my own untethered soul
Float up into the ceiling
And hide amongst the water pipes.

Sometimes, I think gravity gets scared
When I wish myself into something
Scattered brain and disconnected
Disassociation, depersonalization,
Derealization—these side effects on the bottle
They’re all taunting gravity
And gravity runs to hide,
Knocking me off balance and
Up the stairs and skinning my knees
And sometimes I don’t even know I’m bleeding

But sometimes gravity fights back
And my feet are stuck to the ground
My limbs can’t seem to move, my
Head feels like a hundred pounds
My body aches until I lay down
And sink into the carpet.

Sometimes I wonder if you feel it too
If gravity and you are on the odds as well
With all your liquid confidence
And substances to keep you happy
And your tales of falling down stairs—
You fall down, I fall up.
We bob together in a sea of regret
And change and past and
Present and future and lust
And hate but most of all love
Nursing our wounds through
Self medication until a very fed up gravity
Pushes us down, down down down.

Sometimes I think if gravity
Were a little more benevolent
We’d never have hit
These bumps in the road.
I could stay grounded,
Feet planted firmly.
You could stay buoyant
Far above the surface.

But no,
Gravity is a very fickle beast.
And as you’re leading me
Back to my room
For one last goodnight kiss
I trip

And float away.

Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.

Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter's robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics die,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been

the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain

don't let the concrete tame you

the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines

barefoot
running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones

let us fly

let us soar

s'go

i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen

be the water that i drink

fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness

let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west

let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent

Harvested-
a basket
of ruby jewels!

Here I stand in the kitchen,
a chilled mother with warm thoughts,
easing tissue-thin skins
from slithers of moist flesh.

Birdsong.
Peaceful solitude.
Time unrolls its red carpet.

Considerably reduced,
I slip a few scarlet streaks
into a bone-white bowl.
A familiar voice calls me to the garden.
"Tea dear!"
but I hunger for something stronger.

A rush of love
flies like an arrow
to pierce silence

today, demeter is nothing but
a bewildered ghost in a haunted meadow,
skinning flowers as they weep:
they're neatly lined as in an execution,
the creek, a boneyard,
a lair of sorrows for her dazed *******.

today, the sun desperately combs
through tree branches
for an abandoned nest of grief
but its hands just stray too far
and poke at a meadow's wound —
nails cutting through graying skin.

this is a poem written by a bystander.
this is a poem written by a witness.
this is a poem written by the victim.
the world blurs its lines today
and demeter is nothing
but a forgotten ghost
in a town painted new.

Since fifty-eight
the jaycees come
rounding up rattlers
in Sweetwater, folk from all over
for a weekend in March
when snakes leave the hibernaculum
and slide back up
into west Texas and the wind.

Mr. Herrera knew his Luis and I
rode the seven-thirty bus,
had cokes and potato chip sandwiches
with Mitchell and Thomas
after Sunday school,
shot jackrabbits that ate alfalfa
in the dairy pastures.

Dad said he reckoned,
so I took Mr. Herrera’s apron
and offer and brought my knife
that Luis sharpened to a razor
and shaved his forearm hairs with.  
Frank tried that once,
sliced himself like a tomato
when he slipped.

Snake shop’s a butchery,
down the main street
past the dairy mart
and primary school,
in the yellow open scrub.  
If buzzards had noses like dogs
they’d flock, smell that
snake blood from Mexico.

Rattlesnake skinning
is all stringy guts, soft skin,
pulled teeth and poison
squeezed out of gum sockets
like milk from an old cow’s ****.  
Fancy skins with eyeholes
and lips cost ten,
specialty of Mr. Herrera.
Headless strip plus rattle
just two dollars the foot.
Cut the belly lengthwise
and rip,
easy near the backbone
where it catches.  

Out-of-towners buy anything.
Wallets, boots, belts with snakeskin
sewed or tacked on,
lucky rattles, picture frames
for proof of their longest catch.  
God-fearing jaycees doing good
for our communities will eat
deep-fried snake meat,
like tough old chicken,
but good with black-eyed peas
and sweet tea on the side.  

The women even come
once the round-up is done,
the church women, the Jesus women
with belief
and pistachio pudding
with marshmallows,
like Mrs. Howard
who shrieked “Boyd!”
and lectured about hygiene
when she saw me in my apron
and ****** to my elbows,
menacing the street.  

The biggest round-up days
we worked late, past midnight.
Past the dairy mart hours,
so once the skins
were all peeled and stretched
and the sticky linoleum
hosed down some,
Luis and I walked back through town,
deserted, dark





except lights from Roscoe and Roby
and even big Abilene
miles away, shining
across the flat nothing,
coyotes yip yip yipping
somewhere near the lake farther north.

Luis showed me how to eat peanuts
shells and all
and let me try on his brother’s
high school letter jacket.  
Late night in Sweetwater is a nothing.  
The wind never stops blowing,
and there’s nobody else
on the ******* planet.

I remember her distinctly,
she wore green flannel & cargo shorts,
Che cap & a stuck sunflower,
her braids exploded from under it.

She was proud of her antler-handled side knife
& jump boots, traipsed around
like she was on the nature boardwalk,
I heard she stalked Sasquatch once.

That girl was
the consummate outdoors woman,
she knew all about trapping,
skinning & first aid,
could make water
spring  from the ground.

Her grin was infectious,
a true aura of love hung
like dander around her,
her sensuality screamed
silently from her twinkling eyes,
the color of azure.

I was with her for one summer,
then I moved out of her sacred-valley.
Every time I look at the stars,
I remember her campfires
& the times we spent
at Moondipper
in each others arms
tasting marshmallows.

The furrier tells the bell by the time of skinning,
Archangels by their clipped wings as they fell,
Statesmen by show of divided hands at plenary ringing,
The wind by quell of truant petals from daffodil.
And even love tells its beginnings and endings,
By lips shorn of lambswool words and yield of bale.
In light or darkness, though our animal souls uprisen,
Still in their wordless and naked measuring dwell.

Grandpa melted two squirrels together using the fat from their bodies after skinning the skin from their bellies.  They were dead before he began this project, of course.  He's a taxidermist.  
Grandpa is surely to blame for many a nightmare–
The jars of eyes and teeth collected from years of scraping corpses off the highway.
But as the Buddhists preach, I've found some blessings in his macabre pastime.  
Most of my friends shy away from the undesirable aspects of life;
Death bringing up the forefront.  
I feel that grandpa's melancholy menagerie has helped me
Cozy up to the idea that despite life's bountiful beauty,
A dark side coexists intertwined-
But darkness is not always
A bad thing...
Is it?

When we arrive at the beach, the oppressive sun has
begun his slow, creeping descent towards the gap in
the dunes where, if one stood at the very crest, he
might see the swampy bay, tufted in tall, thin grass
and dotted with ospreys and cranes. I carry a bag
depicting a bastardization of the American flag, and
he tugs the narrow mesh cart with cartoon wheels across
the flesh-toned sand. The crowd of hungry beachgoers
is thinning, and the lifeguards have just begun to lug
their tall wooden stand back from its perilous proximity
to the gentle breakers. I walk just a few paces behind
my father, until he stops, asking, “Is this a good spot?”
I nod, never before remembering a time when he
sought my approval for a seaside roost. After ******* our
umbrella—blue-green, as though reflecting in canvas
the fluctuating shades of the mutable Atlantic—deep into
the cool sand, and setting the two chairs firmly in its chilly
shade, he asks, “Wanna swim?” Again, I nod, stripping
until I wear nothing but a mint green bikini and sunglasses.
Leisurely, we stroll towards the small waves and wade into
the just-right water gradually. Subconsciously, I am again
just three or four footfalls behind his frame, as if I cannot
continue any deeper until he has tested the sea, and each
step forward is a promise that everything is okay,
and I may proceed with caution.

Our steady immersion suddenly releases in me a torrent
of memories. I see myself, maybe seven, planted next
to him on the beach, where the sand is only just damp,
digging holes with our hands so that a small pool of
icy liquid slowly emerges, and then cupping the sand
and carefully dripping it along the edges to create a
system of fortresses and castles melting in the breeze.
I see him explaining to me, age nine, the proper way
to bodysurf, and I feel once again a sudden fear that
the salty water will fill my nostrils and cause that
choking burn that I detest to this day. I remember
him laughing that hearty guffaw as I was, invariably,
thrown from my boogie board in the aftermath of a
particularly large wave, skinning my knees against
the broken shells dotting the rough ocean floor. I
hear his careful instructions about the proper and
improper behaviors when ****** into a rip tide—
swim horizontally, he’d say, and if I didn’t understand
the word, he’d clarify that it meant to follow the beach,
because following the sea was certain death.

When our waists have just begun to adjust to the
temperature, I overhear the father of a girl who is
about the age I was in these memories exclaim that
a pod of dolphins has come quite close, and upon
looking, I see their gray bodies slithering in and out
of the deeper water. I nudge my father and point, and
we both marvel at this rare occurrence. Thousands of
seconds pass, and this time he is pointing off in the
distance, saying, “They’re still hanging around. Must
be a school of fish or something.” When I ask him if
he knows why they are within swimming distance,
he tells me confidently that it must be due to the
water’s unseasonable warmth, and I know in my
heart and in my brain that he is correct, as usual.

After the dolphins have disappeared, I say that I
am done swimming, that I want to start the Marquez
tome weighing heavily upon my conscience and that,
besides, we shouldn’t leave our valuables alone for
too long. He simply shrugs, as if to say, “Why would
you want to get out of this ocean?” almost as though he
didn’t realize thievery is such a common occurrence
at the Jersey shore. From my haven in the shade, I
feel goosebumps emerge as my father’s shirt deepens
from heather gray to taupe. Before leaving the
house our family has visited every summer for over
a decade, I borrowed his brand new headphones—he
was so excited to tell me that they don’t knot—and
their bulbous coverings, when stuck in ears on a
windy beach, create the sort of howling found in
1970s horror movies, my own personal FX. Despite
the fact that I have just surpassed one quarter of a
century in age, I still see him, a few years past the
half-century mark, turn around, squinting, until he
sees me safely planted in the plastic chair, as safe
as a father could hope his oldest daughter to be.

Under that pretty flawless skin,
Is a bruised layer aching in pain.
And under those heart-melting eyes,
Are the eyes of a lost puppy lying in the rain.

Under that bright and radiant step,
Is something deteriorating into less than a smile,
Under that happy and cheerful handshake,
Is someone who just refused to do that for a while.

It is not very well known that,
Every skinning of the teeth is not a laugh,
You never know; for you may be surprised,
That you may discover someone going down a completely different path.

Anne was in the bath
splashing soapy water
over her small *******
you were by the door

looking anxiously about
what if some one comes in?
you asked
the doors locked

she said
but we’re not meant
to lock the door
when we’re in the bath

you said
meant?
you’re all full
of laws and rules

Skinny Kid
laws and rules
are meant
to be broken

that’s what
gives us
our freedom
you looked

at her damp black hair
her *******
like two wet piglets
I shouldn’t be here

you said
you dragged me
in here
she threw

two handfuls of water
over her face
spitting out
what got in

her mouth
shut the moaning Kid
it’s not every
10 years old kid

who gets to watch
a woman bath
you’re 12
you said

well a 12 year old woman
bath then
she said
taking hold

of a sponge
and washing
under her arms
where dark patches

of hair grew
I ought to go
you suggested meekly
no I might need you

to help me
out of the bath later
I can’t stand
on one ******* leg

can I
she said  
now get your
skinning backside

over here
you moved slowly
from the door
to the bath

and watched her reluctantly
wash between
her thighs
you can scrub my back

she said
I can’t reach behind
without rolling over
and almost

******* drowning
she handed you
the soapy sponge
and you rubbed

her back
with one hand
trying to look away
not notice

not to take it all in
lovely
she sighed
lovely Kid

and you scrubbed harder
and then handed her
back the sponge
and stood back

looking at the steamed up window
thin rivulets of water
running down
the frosted glass

now help me
get up and out
she said
and pass me a towel

you held her hand
as she heaved herself up
and she stood there
like a one legged Venus

and you gave her
the white towel
from the chair
and helped her out

on to the floor
making wet foot marks
as someone rattled
the handle

and called through
the bathroom the door.

'Twas the night before Christmas--Old Santa was ******.
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.
Miserable little brats, ungrateful little jerks.
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works!

I've busted my *** for **** near a year,
Instead of 'Thanks Santa'--what do I hear?
The old lady ******* cause I work late at night.
The elves want more money--The reindeer all fight.

Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids.
Donner is pregnant and ***** has AIDS.
And just when I thought that things would get better
Those ******* from the IRS sent me a letter,
They say I owe taxes--if that ain't **** funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus any money?

And the kids these days--they all are the pits
They want the impossible--Those mean little *****
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls...Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo's--No request for them,
They want computers and robots...they think - I'm IBM!

Flying through the air....dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I'm quitting this job there's just no enjoyment
I'll sit on my fat *** and draw unemployment.

There's no Christmas this year now you know the reason,
I found me a blonde. I'm going SOUTH for the season

It hurt
when I fell
off my bike,
skinning my knees
against the asphalt.

I looked up in shock,
my mouth a perfect O.
It wasn't until I saw
the blood,
streaming down my shins,
that I began to wail.

Over the crest of the hill,
I saw my father,
running to me,
his face creased with worry.

Without hesitation,
he picked me up, held me
in his arms.
I clung to him, helpless
as I was, sobbing into his neck.

He assured me that it was fine
I was fine
He was there, and
Nothing would hurt me.

Later, once home, bandaged and clean,
he threw away his favorite,
now-bloodstained, sky blue shirt.


It hurts more now
when I fall off my bike.
When he's no longer there to help me
back up,
wipe away the blood,
and promise me that I'm safe.

"I saw what it does to people," you said
with a mixture of disdain and disgust like
you were talking about **** addicts before
and after pictures.
"I hate girlfriends," you said to me after you told me
we weren't going out on Valentines Day because your
ex set you up with someone else and you "have to" go
and who is afraid of Berkeley and all those new idee-ers
The vegan restaurants with rice milk whipped cream
The pleasant outdoor cafes with people learning, studying
the only "Ivy League" public University...
All those things there to open your mind and make you
think differently and you may begin to believe in Global Warming
and even though you don't, those thoughts may haunt you
but I know there are scientists working in labs all over the world trying
to figure out what to do about it ...
Socialism, you are afraid of that too
but what is it when Walmart hands out an application
for public healthcare to all their new hires
since they will never be able to afford their own
and Walmart can't share any money on their behalf
In the Netherlands, mink farms have been outlawed
yet you like to dissect them in your class and
carry around the poor dead skinless creature in
a clear plastic bag around the school
and many of those places prefer to pay the fees
and citations of skinning the animals alive rather than
pay to **** them before skinning
why doesn't that bother you?

Prairie winds howling from the south, the entire southern plane a gaping maw issuing forth wide frozen tides in the air scorching the land. peering thru the open blotches of the windshield on the way home, headlights revealing the rolling billows of misty scintillating snow devouring the gravel road way, old raised green truck roars thru the drifts. Earlier, twilight. Freezing. Everything the wind touches, everything that blocks its path becomes still and solid and severely dense. Had a bubble bath before i went out. AB =Long Johns 7 mo's. outta the year. Cheeks barely exposed to the elements, cells begin to deteriorate instantly, the strong stolid ache appears seconds afterward, and spreads in my blood quickly, and doesn't stop till some minutes after i seek refuge in the truck. Taking an elk. old bull. my step dad bumbles the first shot and the beast runs down the *****. He shoots it again. Cuts the throat and eventually takes off the head. Draining Blood is steaming. Leave the entrails in the snowscaped pasture land. Chain the legs to the bale mover on the back of the truck and make for the shop a few miles away. There Fire rages in an old steel drum in the corner, burning wood blocks and black petroleum wax leftover from the pigs that blast out from the pipelines. Feeney's in my coffee mug. The heat radiates just enough to reach us in middle room but we still wear full coveralls against to stifle the endless cold. We hang the carcass by running a steel rod through its achilles tendons. Grandpa & Stepdad refer to a murdered family in Consort whose place was burned down, suspect the son was involved in a drug deal gone bad. (Cohen bros. come to mind. Real life in Alberta & BC seems a blend of Big Lebowski and No Country). Skinning the elk. Carving it up. Learning the different cuts of meat, where t-bones come from, tenderloin, round steak, sirloin. Cool. Mass more than a 100 lbs of meat for jerky making. Country cousins comin over the next few days to help with cutting it all up. Striking a balance between fine articulation and the art of laughing. Turns out Everyone respects poetry for the audience. Good god y'all.

Push into my concave
Ripple off your hollow skull
Never met a fond slave
Lookin through a swallow hull

File down for plaster
Skinning clean your mended bone
Bringin down the rafters
Furnace of a heavy home

Call a little blow away to rock yourself to sleep
Soil over forty fay and sow just what you reap

**** the seed of prosper
Four entangled righteous ****
More than you could foster
Still, you might be over hill

Sonny won't you crawl away to somewhen I've not found
Crankin down the bank shaft cause its rollin rollin round
Caught another big one in a dental floss noose
Sell em to the butcher maybe he can get some use

Tuffy skinned a cat
Behind Walker Bros. Stores;
He was probably in on
The sand-girl's situation,
But no one believes her;
Yet believe Tuffy capable of such.
He wrestled ostriches and kangaroos
At Jungleworld,
Real ones.
Some say the animals were old and drugged,
But Tuffy pinned them all the same.

Margo's house burned to the studs
Following her ***-driven ******.
That was thirty years ago,
The same time Jungleworld,
With its spiders, snakes and caged bear
Died off with Tuffy and his peacock,
And the secrets of his take downs and holds.

I never saw Tuffy perform
His flaming knife-throws,
Destroying balloons between lips,
Slicing straps with his swordplay.
He would've thrived in Venice with Leonardo,
Dazzling Popes and Princes,
Who would be benefactors and patrons.
Tuffy would have lived in a villa,
On a mountainside, overlooking his audience,
And applauding them for their attention to detail.

Leather
Soft Supple
Skinning Flaying Dipping
A luxury death
Skin

Last someday I told him you know soldier you gotta stop saying please. You gotta pull the punches like get off your knees and onto your head and roll away laughing in cartwheels. Get your shoes shined your collar pressed your dogs walked, your **** ****** by women who will tell you they think you’re a riot sort of. Gotta stop counting the ghosts in the hall and the pills every week and the calories burned and the blessings. Eventually you will learn to tie your own **** tie but you’re proud of rolling your own cigars, you’re proud of remembering to water the calla lily on the windowsill. You’ve forgotten most of what you’ve read. You can’t remember the news from yesterday or was it the day before did one of the neighborhood kids get shot or did we go to war again, maybe it doesn’t really matter. Haven’t had a fruit juicy enough in six years and you gotta find a tropical country where the papayas and the sunshine make you melt into puddles and you are the rainy season, you roll ominously overhead. You think you’ll stop staying at the Ritz-Carlton on business trips, you think you’ll check into the Super 8 at three forty-two a.m. and when you open the door the ashtray’s full and there’s *** caked on the wall. When you go to the bar you keep forgetting you want a shot of bourbon or maybe a double of Scotch and you order a g&t; instead. The clouds stay grey and the sky stays tearstained. You remember playing tennis and skinning your knee when you were seven, you remember grinning the widest when you had lost your front teeth. You don’t own a single photo album. In spring when the flowers start to bloom you think you ought to have a daughter so you can read her Maurice Sendak. You’ll get shampoo in her eyes and she’ll be cross, and she’ll only forgive you when you tell her that story your college friends are all tired of by now. You have those thoughts and then you remember to wash your hands. But I said yes gotta stop being a yes-man because that turns into I do and then where are you, on the altar with the sacrificial lamb and a woman and when you slip the ring onto her finger and say this isn’t funny she says you’re a riot sort of. You wanna make it here, then you better learn to eat the locusts and ride a camel and not get angry with the scorpion in your underpants. You don’t get angry, you gotta squish his head between thumb and forefinger before he manages to jab your pecker. You are fifty-two. You don’t feel fifty-two. You don’t feel anything other than maybe an intense dislike for carob bean. You were told to be on the lookout so I said to him I said.