when I got home from grocery shopping
They said what a  big bag of god ****** foods!

come satiate me hot sing as the bitter songs
on love torn winds
the clouded skies the rustling trees
make me feel alive
make me  cringe at thunder rasps
hide inside a reason now
for she has gained a new lover since
the last sun shined
the last time we danced
and  now the floor
all littered with her
bits of pictures
and memories
with tears  of whence
I want to cry no more
just make a scene dear hot wind and thunder cloud and radiance me again without
the tender things and soft nuance
the velvet skin the eyes seance
just fiercely grasp her
memory and
take it to            
the land of oz

when I thought
when I worried
when the moon
came up too early

when I saw all alone
on the edge
ruddy high above
sky so weary

like a dove
who had spied
war and flew
up above

to get normal
all alone
I got nervous

all alone all hurried
called above come save me
dove

she just cooed
looking down
so up high

and I was wingless

not an expose
I can't Kant I
am more the Freudian type
German Heil
or the deriving deviant

I am almost subconscious
in the inner sanctities
Darwin was half right
my thumbs up
my *** constantly

bachelors are neither
happy or malcontent
moreover, they are predators

so I argue
that a priori
intuition
one must preclude
is

quality quantity relation modality
is pure nomenclature and not psyche
I feel therefore I am
is was  am again was

was an am
were an I
am a me

come on I can play

he had the stage and a storied life
he was the thing
was the next coming a large head, too

Pride had this sister
she was fine as all ****
a butterbean ****

a face that would make
a cynic positively smile
dimpled and everything

but their mom
she was like
the Yeti Tall Foreboding
hairy

much like my eventual
Mother-in-law
and we all hung out
at keggers

in the back four and a half
acres
on Friday nights
and holidays

Pride had, this night,
a belly too full
a rip roaring thought
of swimming across the
Clinton River

it might have been a bet
a challenge from Little Roger
the troublemaker
that made Pride jump in

Or  his  big head that made
him sink right to the bottom
no problem he was only knee
deep and we rescued him

took three of us drunk fools
but we got him to the bank
and his sister all cute
in cutoff shorts so tight

said should'a let his *** drown
all i could see was her ******* her words seemed
to come from some realm
of make believe

anyways we all floated down that river
the next day on innertubes
except Little Roger
he had walked away

disappointed Pride was rescued
into a blackberry patch in the dark
and gotten bit
by a cottonmouth

I always have since wondered why
Mrs. Hairy McBoom took it so hard.

top of the heap
you are King
and along comes someone to show you a thing
a new way of doing what you have done for years

at first, you judge him by his looks, only,
his long hair his ragged jeans
his sandals and ***** feet
his passivity his long beard

and he looks preoccupied
taken away by drugs or drink
his mind blown by crack
**** or LSD

he seems to hover so slow so deeply
occupied in a world he made for
himself burnt out we
used to call it

then when the day is over and you look
closer at the results and not the
scruffy exterior
you see he outdid you

and you have been the
King for thirty years
knew it all
you thought you were sure

and here this man rides in
on a stinking mule
in sandals looking like
a beggar

and changes every ******* thing?

tender is the ream of paper unwritten on
virginal
just pure fresh
rendering
her white flesh to my energies

a coil of possibility
a misnomer a dream
a bundle of tangled up thoughts spoken
with an urge to untangle
all of  those tightly woven knots

or at least share them
that is what it is, sharing
trying to connect somehow
this energy I have after nine
and ten hours
of straining muscle

when I see a bit of pure white
unsotted unsoiled  unspoken
pure white like a holy vision
a vision of goddesses dress
I want to tame her

Take her as a mighty lion
tame her to be mine
add her to my lair
pull her hair
write on her flesh

with my pen my words my scent my soul my heart  my being
my next thought
make the white paper suffer
my hurts my desires my untended energies
feel my pen deep on her
in her surface

mate with her claim the spaces the dashed curves
the indents the margins the surface
from top to bottom
from side to side scribbling the
most urgencies

I feel a need to write in ink on white

content to just live
on the porch with four legged company
cars racing by to what I wonder as
I sip my first beer of the day and Missy
panting sticks her head in my hand
wanting touch and enjoying the sun's last rays of a calm good day
Daisy Mae and Luke Duke
are more energetic
youthful
they want to dance
Missy and I just want a peaceful evening
growing grayer
touching a bit
a bit of brew and water
the trees and the birds bedding
all of nature making their night beds preparing
watching us watching it watching them
as if we had their energy
reminiscing
an old dog is good company

occupy the windows things
the  outside lights and fleeting visions
live like a reflection always looking out
and never in

stand in the sun and hide
from tangibles that glow in
the insides shine the
things you hide

that to everyone
are obvious like elephants
your signature your
dispositions I guess

convert and consecrations
your only sin
but you turn away when looking at the
colored glass

the cross a searing soldier told
to wipe your secondhand mind
clean and when you find
the answers I will speak in sentences

drifting
I seem to live right there
anymore

the tide washes me clean
then crashes
me on the shore

I seem to ebb
with the moon's
phases

like the sounds
of the animals
bay and call

from the shore
the seagull's caw
every wave

my life my death
and I taste salty
and sweet

see depth
see foam and everything

just before our love caught
lust
I thought of
you being special
a box
of times, symbols
put away on a shelf up high
a woman an ideal
a ******
the realm of  
magical I  seem to make
a vision
then
I awoke to your touch your special fervor your
temperature as high as  mine
your needs the same as mine
your  body as willing
and I spent the next life of mine
remembering

a condition
love is
it seems

malady almost a shock
when used to no one
you get her

you are normal
some serious
shortcomings

like not six feet tall
or drop dead  handsome
or rich

a Woody Allen
personality
the angst

a comedic happenstance
glasses out of the
comics

(gotta see if I can see out
of my eyes with
contacts)

and yet
she is there
and smiles

touches your leg,
well mine
see,

I distance myself like I
am not worthy.

When In fact she
takes my hand
and pulls me to

the bed
the end

she had the vision
saw how I worked harder
around payday
saw how I sang better
in the shower
how I was happier
when she was near

she once sang with me we
sang several songs
by Joni Mitchell
Courted and sparked while
lying **** in the dark drunk
high'
watching the sparks

flit and flutter and course
around the ceilings the walls light
up my amateurish paintings
unframed neither a care
in this world

we sang together made music
dealt in dreams
forgot going to Paris
forgot any and all but
us, ours  was a paradigm
a magical hymn
a day

in paradise

no matter how I teased no matter
how I danced Peacock showed or showered her
in her magnificence, she talked like friends
always proper
It made me wilder
determined
I tried more
harder more persistent and she was
always just out of reach
like angels  
breath
a tragedy
now a memory

if just one person
just one
or imagine three did it
or fifty
or the whole world
did

felt like I do
or you
or like Mahatma
Buddha
Jesus  
what a world

this may be Nirvana
here
imagine
how might the love flow
instead of arms
instead of war

always remember me smiling
my corny jokes
my eyes twinkling
my desires, Peace

remember me as one might
a summer breeze
a flower bud
a blade of grass, proud

a sated satyr a statue posed
next to a corn stalk
next to a sunflower
smiling forever, wild

the sun over a mountaintop
peeking glowing
a small piece of a seed
in the wind, blowing

clench the taste
suffocate it
between your teeth

grasp the leg
in both hands
pull it tight

claim this as yours
all the flesh
the ******

grab and fight
clench and perspire
make you see

fight with every tendril
fiber
tentacle

the naked truths
don't just
follow

hazelwood briars brown the forlorn
fallen limbs on the ground the next step watched
for slithery snakes amongst the dappled
sun contrasts and deep shadows
make great
camouflage make great hiding places
makes the mind seek
the mowed lawn manicured
barefoot I spend time like
my ancestors
naked roaming
the deepest wildest places
in nothing but shivers
and teasing the insides my recesses
into seeking out the forbidden
shallow ponds soft silty bottom
the rivers banks
a tall oak on the side of the hills
majesty
the elm on the lee side of that hill hidden from
eyes and so peculiarly begging,
calling me
seducing
swaying in the sunlit portions of all of
the fronds edges the mosses
the mushrooms sprouting
a soft bird shrill
a move is a whistle
the loneliness a thrill
the caution in the breeze
a passing will

The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

when there are only bones a bit
a morsel of flesh left
and your fingers grip
nothing but empty pens
and dry bristles
your chin to your chest
the sky holds gray and no shiny objects
not a bit of yellow hope
or crimson remorse to pontificate
no pronouns left in the baggy pant's pocket
no metaphors in your legs strength
just one breath left
and sanity
strains you to the end
just ponder that last breath
and how you will rest
when it all seems to come back again
when that rooster crows
tomorrow!

Cranberry juice is not meant
as a topical medicament
for the treatment of private part itches,
I found out when I confided to
this girl online
that I had this serious itching
predicament
in places I didn't want to mention out-loud,
I told her how I had tried
Preparation H, Lamisil,
baby powder, Cortisone ointment,
Eucerin, and even Calamine lotion,
she said I probably had
a yeast infection, that
men can get them,
and her having the usual equipment
that tends to get this type of malady more frequent,
I took her suggestion of one glass a day
of cranberry juice.
Poured one glass over the offending itchy parts
before my shower each day.
When I told her her remedy was not doing anything but staining my privates, I heard her laughing, she dropped offline for ten minutes.
My face turned red when she finally came back and said laughing,
"I meant to drink it!"

I am never

straw bales
I am the needle buried

find me I dare you

ten beams into the building I knew her
she was the tiller from a seagoing vessel
a sway a leech to the port a missing tender
a long lost vestige of her cargo
the gold the plates
the necklaces traded
all on the bottom
and this tenth beam now holding the center of the floor of
this old building straight and level
had her strength once floating
on a sea ridge a foam of shore
crashed into
and broken apart
and spent and forgotten and under dark tides
was alone
in her failure so long ago
that sent men and cargo to the depths
she staggered again into being
taken from a watery death to live
as the  support
of this
odd sort of haunted structure
proud now and determined
wood finished and raw and old  and bowed yet
stout and proud
and I sensed her ten beams in

you have this spot archived like right in my iris a place forefront in my cerebellum a name I see in granite written
childhood's innocence rebirthed sidewalks chalked in squares
hopping skipping again
a great change a revisit to the passions of youth
and I want to innocently kiss you love
a first kiss a blush again
the rush flowing like the winds from the west
carrying essences of tropical plants
morning coffees on that porch
I have in this premonition

The scenery, first I would need to be outside
where birds perch on telephone wires
squirrels scurry away unworried
on crooked limbs of scrub oaks
jump like circus acrobats onto a cedar five feet away
and then I would need to open my eyes to
the vast sky blue receding far away into deep yellows
buzzards on parade so high up,
crimson shadows foretelling the coming turn of day animals
from visual to stumbling creatures
possums  and armadillos
bats
but I am entombed on a stool in my combo
living room kitchen dog port-a -***** cat
highway and playland with last night's fork
a bit of cheese on it still
a cigarette in the ashtray
wafting a trail of gray
into the air while
I study how to make sense of the
inner with outer
the fresh air with stale
the sun midday with
the foreseeable sunset
and sit and wonder in awe at all of it

the resulting angst of
traveling through
the dawn weary
the midday hungry
the evening suffering

a normal human existence
our bane
the baggage
where the normal people
live
in the midst of a cornfield

no bright lights
seeing no red carpets
crowds just chickens
and peanut fields
just us out here

not a crowd cheering no
home run heroes or
savvy dialects on a stage
Bravos, not a single hero
standing like Oz at the row

on the end of the acres
the row upon row of green
like it has been for generations
trying like Superman
or Whitman

to make sense of it
and we bend in the breeze too
easily,
though we may be as strong
as Confederates,
we  like to think so

a bit decrepit
rigor mortis  feels
as if it sets in
and I am breathing
wrinkled gray was worn out
like yesterdays smelly shirt
and yet
with still the hopes
and dreams and mindset
of a four-year-old
on Christmas Eve

short...

there are characters in romance in wit
in seances that try to pull wool
over your blind eyes

smarter fools than I
catch their games
their playfulness

I believe in them

or want

for I

am star struck and  earthbound

wanting more to life
I sit and hope for  aliens to visit

conjure up visions of ghostly
visitors on full moon nights
werewolves

daredevils  
tight walking Imagineers
peering into an abyss

with thoughts
from the realm of make  believed
childhood innocence

fairy tailed

I love stories and dreams and romance
I love tripping over my two big clodhopper feet
and falling through

my ******* nearly breaking

my ****** neck

again

nature to this
the entire atmosphere
dark backgrounds
composed of silhouetted
stiletto nudes posed
starkly blocking the sun
leaving
long trails in the morning's
rays of the darkest nights
wild  entertaining
as  long shadows slowly ebbing
slowly so stealthily
back into the gray

cures range from ice packs to an anti-inflammatory diet
to a blunt to a long walk with a dog
to a fifth of JD to writing sonnets or listening
to some badass Miles Davis blues and
work has its way of lessening the impacts
of those tendernitis
symptons that include
pounding hearts
intense sweating
headaches
dizziness
frequent urination (my **** Dog has this)
work hard physical labor
lifting 100 50 lb bags of mortar off the backass of a van
then 50 boxes of porcelain
has a way of making one's back
make one's head too tired to fret
and ignore the dog **** in the corner
and just come  in and
grab a beer light a blunt, sniff a line, snort
shoot up, whatever your pleasure,
just pat her head and let her jump all over you
(***** *** feet she has)
and sit on the couch
sipping --pause the world revolving for a minute--
getting tender is for painters
******* it
painters drink wine

where are those words inside my mind so hidden
urgent and sublime
those words I had so fervent heard had memorized
just an hour prior
and where  by chance did I put my keys
I had them here just a minute ago
who is this person in the mirror
I can't recall that drooping face
what might have happened near or scene
in the last ten years I been sleeping
here just watching MTV

recall that sunny summer day honey
in the fields of straw and bees
busy so flitting and turning our ways touching
as the flowers did invite the nectars to be drank
like two hummingbirds we sang to
Van Morrison
then blushed under that willow tree
her limbs like a silken veil
on a bed in a palace made by God for
two souls flying performing
under a blue sky of August
in a field of golden reeds and dreams
a sweet nectar knows her destination
and we  knew instincts love
and nature
it was worth remembering
(even if it never happened)

If I were  painted a long time ago
in say Renaissance times, two dimensions,
I might be a saint-
or a revolutionary-
I was stroked
of harsh defiant bold colors
when portraits were cast in canvas
bronze overtones of gesso and black only
washes of contrast
the tone built up
with layers of translucence
and bone colored washes
and hung on a wall and try though I might
the egg tempera
earth tones deeper than
olive oil on a live model
wore off
and  the canvas warped
the wood grew skewed
and the museum had me
cremated
along side
a dog and scattered in the
woods
just as I had hoped

if all you may gain is comfortable be charitable
I walk daily to the store and pick up cans and old papers
seeking no reward treasure sometimes comes
like the day I found forty dollars
it was a bonus more than I got from
those fifty years of being greedy
I see people smile or notice me and my dog
Missy walking right there the entire time next to me heeling
pointing out litter by ******* next to it
and smelling the passers by the litterers
the bad dog that went this way the hound the
ground hogs
I smile when I do that Missy smiles
we got it too comfortable
I wish all could

as we go surely confident through
the words coursing like platelets
filled with oxygen and iron
into the open turn red turn flowing
denying death with our tourniquets
of bandaged words our mangled verbs
stopping that flow flowing on
for one last second to call
out our virulence as the light dims
our strength ebbs
and our calls echo

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "let us flee!"
"Let us fly!" said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

Ogden Nash

nearly a violinist with a straw and a hum
a hat and a blindfold a drum
like a teenage soldier on his marching hip
I was patriotic 'til
that day we elected an ***
to the highest office
then I saw the flag in her glory drown in
stupidity and ignorance
I thought of impeachment and how
the honor  of our country is
being taken
for a ride in lies
and  Russian towards an abyss

and every day is a chapter and every
dream a limb
every new thing a sunrise and  every leaf
a hymn
and every song has her melody
and every tune her key
each wisdom its simplicity
simple things their place
prejudices their predispositions
and harmony her grace
and a new day will dawn
I am so sure
where the trees grow flowers
of fruit and the leaves fall
like money and
the songs are as melodic
as wisdom on a new sunny day
and the people place no
thought to differences
i pray

with enormous expectations
like those of being a noted artist
from the suburban sidewalks of
the ***** streets of Michigan

ended up in the Air Force
the hair cut was the worst
had my hair down to my ***
exited with it barely over my ears

I wanted to get educated find
Something, I didn't know what,
in society and attended college
one semester

I would dedicate myself fully
the next party too hard,
so it took me
eight years

to get a Bachelor's degree
by then had two kids
a wife and an extended family
of her mom grandma, sister

aunts papas all of us in a house together
when I got a paying job finally
she didn't want to leave all the
unhired help the unpaid diaper changers

and she stayed there
I moved on and it tore my ***** into
small pebbly stones all shrunken up
all alone in a big house

bent my nights up with a tab
at the bar and loose women and
giggly ******
sometimes  thinking most times not

I gave up then found a new she
and when I did the ex came crawling back and
I admit I used her
revenge *** is some of the best

I got ****** bereft of feelings for a long time
had a callous heart I found a few
years laters again
on the side of a small town

called Clayhatchee.
where the streets are
repaved and the dogs
run free

along side me old
all keeping pace with my
strides of going nowhere
ever again
dreamily

I asked a thief to steal me a peach,
He turned up his eyes;
I ask'd a lithe lady to lie her down,
Holy & meek she cries.

As soon as I went
An angel came.
He wink'd at the thief
And smild at the dame--

And without one word said
Had a peach from the tree
And still as a maid
Enjoy'd the lady.

- William Blake, 1863

what have the fingers to say
with their anonymous scribblings when
I close my eyes and let them fly
thinking mostly with fingernails
on a chalkboard just letting them cry
I don't  outline my subject or have a theme when I
wash my hands stretch my digits out
let them loose to do their texting
watch dense as mercury on Mars from here
their words surprising the meaning come from behind
the aching tendonitis the arthritis spasms
those fingerprints on the keys of my worn off identity
I claim nothing
almost not me

she gains the sun's rays like she is wild flowers growing
or the moss on the side of a tree
her essence the real side of glory and
she turns heads like a fairie seen
out of the corner of a normal man's eye
fleeting speculative that dream  
the illusion you meant to see or wished or phantom
in your deepest days dream again of her
white gown fairly face golden hair
a pure fleeting scent  you melt in the air
a vegetable a plucked flower
her air the things
of full bellies vaulted ceilings of palaces
dance with a princess golden there

naked in masks
how I see
the people pass
the day
hiding they believe
their innermost thoughts
problem is
I have  become  prescient

for two for us  for me for you

I am most intense when I work more than ten hours
take the fervor home and want notifications
comments and  hearts and things to take
that edge off without sipping the dregs
of the bottom of a wine bottle or the scrapes from that pipe
or pushing my stem again
or asking Alice for her dreams
can I borrow some
please Brer Rabbit
when nothing is a flitter on the network and I disappear
and am broke I have all a flutter
the broke *** bluest thoughts
it's almost hell hard to devour defeat
make senses of or feel
I wouldn't feel if i felt then

full grown light magnesium burns on the corner bright
now
now that false dude with the habit
has been removed from the bushes where he shagged
and scared little girls
and the punk drug dealer stood
near the bushes in the dark was
removed by what light
that burns like welder's torches
belches the sun at dark onto sly daredevils those
**** buckets
and the users go around to another place now
the young girls play basketball there
safe into the dark hours
and the brightest light saved
another generation
and it only took two deaths
there
to make it happen

favored memories you face faded now in spaces
of black blank places those jostled touches of
colors of hosiery ******* hung on lines that last touch
with old fashioned  wooden clips
the **** and the ******* and the line taut
between  stretched the left and right  
where dogs roam wild and nothing is washed or hung out
those fineries hidden from view now with an Aqualung
tracing his flute and deep bass
around the inside your skull
as you dance on the park bench barking ferile
unkempt flea and louse ridden crazinesses
scratching your self like that terror  
you demonized
the memory you became of that same man
who said hello
to you so long ago
and wretch throw up
so much now
it does no good

down the mountains from the clouds from eye corners onto cheeks to riverbeds to the seas oceans feeding life renewing dry grounds fish nip
trees reach out roots people dip their toes in
watch in awe the powers of listen to her calmness
build dams to claim
in the end the flow has her aim
a strength a magnetism of beauty and death power
over our tears the gardens our vegetables energized
and a life down her gravity is taken not  
ever feeling killed
much like breath flows
the power of nature is

no facts are sure no eminence is more gloried
no thoughts more pure
ten times the day is logged into
papers artifacts and journals
they say more than any book
real life the essences
of skin and flesh and bone
ten times the brain stems energy
into a theory a rainbow a painting a poem
written down under tears stains sobs
catching breaths
onto last months utility bill
or the latest eviction notice
a  masterpiece of hearted stone words lost
in the next day's trash pickup and the
***** stinking men sweating
running behind
the loud crushing metal truck the plastic
bins thrown casually into with
callous ignorance go the memories of lost souls
poets who might have made
Emerson cry choke
feel