Summer with a scent of peppermint
Is a cliché
Shedded cherry tears cover the remains of asphalt
under the multitude of lonely feet

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or drops of blood, or hair, or parachutes,
or acidheads experimenting with flight
(misled believers in their superpowers),
or jacket, hat, and backpack of a child
​returning home an hour late from school.

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where the pins weren't
sharper than the air
stopped by pin pricks
​hidden in the remote control

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Open your window,
throw your ennui out,
which consumes itself
through the depths of your house

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You are a tree....You carry notions of hope in your wide open arms
You are also the dancing breeze on the still waters of a mountain lake, and the deep blue surging waves of an ocean. You wait for miracles to unfold around you.

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last night I saw you plunge from the top of the cliff into the ocean. you were wearing your blond wig, when you emerged from the water not a hair was out of place.

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Other people have better heroes, heroes
That break down less often, that come with a warranty.
But this is my hero, and I’ve gotten used to him.

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after supper he’d lift it out, slide it slowly
from its scabbard, jab it and show me
how the Germans screwed it sideways
​to yank out your intestines—like a Canuck

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Lucy, how could you know, in your tender immediacy, that your great-great-grand-daughter of the future would be a seven-foot-tall dragon with functionless wings?

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After the mob murdered the man for eating
a cow, it was found to be meat
from a goat. Why can I not
stop thinking about it—
the stringy flesh inside his gut,

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he is stripped down to the essentials:
a man and his facts, a meteor
shattering into little stars

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I did not love you, not
in the way we are taught to think
of love, but

you held me, listened to me, made me
say what I needed.

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So, now we must negotiate all the
god-forsaken years spent indentured
to one god or another millennia
after millennia like strata embedded
​into our primordial DNA.

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I never perfected the art of taking
of claiming the merely found as mine
never felt the extensive satisfaction
of keeping all my finds

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Vehement shakes and frowns,
points to his pad and pencil.
“Too sad” he writes . . . (to remember,
to be no longer able to play)

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I remember Rene Otto Castillo. Because the lines and their sizes
are all there though we have made several attempts to erase
with all our might. A smell from the pot on a hearth is out there
from the window and everybody in the street breathes the beetroot
​soup. It is launch. It is ethereal nose everybody wears all this noontide.

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If only one could play them without the “tits and feathers.”
​A profound unmitigated loneliness is the only truth of life.

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The other day a woman was pulled from the canal unconscious and not breathing. That’s when I realized I should have done something sooner – hanged myself from a ceiling hook or bitten down on the muzzle of a gun.

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The children stay home from school
often now. Homework never complete.
They have grown silent. Whenever they
talk, it is said, they only speak about
colors missing from the rainbow.

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This young man’s madness is sincere and intense.
Bargemen grind to dock their relics to the shore,
their rusty struggle is honest and intense.

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Wanton winds,
take my broken songs 
to the riverside
and let them drown.
I need room
for new songs of hope.

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The 5 was much easier to write
The ampersand, less so
With nothing to wave your hand over
As if virtual nature quite interior
Overlaps

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The neighborhood monkeys,
doused in kerosene,
Revolved around the tiny globules
Of loss and savagery

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Closest thing
you’ll ever get
to luck’s
a ping pong ball

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as her wrists ache,
shoulders protest
and eyes accede
more and more to memory –

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We didn’t know
about the stifling
box cars, the bullhooks.
We just kept
waving our light-up
​plastic toys

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of borrowed streets of silent
daughters voyaging toward
homes filled with dust and
detritus and grime lacking
​wind eyes to air their there.

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Snap your fingers and the dancing girls appear, it’s that simple.
Oh, they are dancing women. Now they are men.
Do you see what I mean. I have taken you over. You have become
a control freak. A control pervert. A wrong shoe on the right foot.

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Stop and take your temperature; tie a rope around the
daunting cloud that insists of hovering above you before
sleep sets in and hunger knows no marrow.

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you might be a break in the monotony
a saxophonist encouraging call and response
then you quit smoking for good
while I notice 
in the middle of the night
a pair of scissors at my throat

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Internet. Information. Rain pouring into
the glass cunt of my mind
Momma always said I told you so
before beating the glass

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this is Oklahoma
this is frontierland
make it up as you go
the sharp procedure
the sharps injected

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Let us pray for tar, hot & melting
against old rocks, chipped & broken
like our lives, robbed of innocence
& youthful zeal. Bodies neglected.

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Aristocrats on annuities in drawing rooms
held bromances of the mire,
tempest glances by garment pulses
with breasts as powdered as the pines.

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