spring creek road

on spring creek road
water in the gutter
doesnt discriminate
it's all filthy
rinsing pebbles or
rounding the teeth and gums

no such thing as concrete
river divider discrimination

where brown skinned babies
build things with two hands
inherited from the steel and spark
of the assembly plant
darkened leathery finish
kneeding black earth
and sweet meats

big brothers race things
with two wheels
true angel bodies
swing widely in the sun
raising glasses of pure water
to golden eyes
to ascertain the essence of their lives

across the road
using the curb as a springboard
raising glasses of pure water
to blue eyes
to ascertain the essence of their lives
natives of another kind face an indoor world
a white enameled season
too white to see cracked muddy surfaces
where the water ran
and didn't come back

Response to WCW

what are pants, if not for drying hands?
other than to cover your privates.

Imagination
isms
la fille, Camille, on the cover screen is a cognate for dollar, no?
ta Daouleaur, no? Transgression tongue sounds
transpose the airwaves and become dense theory
the poet is nothing but a scholar making observations
Imagination
isms
WCW on another list of paperback books and ladders
lowering into a knapsack thicket
dark corners where crumbs take a nap after resting their minds
resting eyes is a synonym for sleep
words rest when human body parts slip them in empty spaces
Imagination
isms
the chair is a lucky mother fucker
socks make way for black faded guitar pants leading to green
bumpy cotton mountains
Mount Abercrombie and straps and pads and navel
with lint in it
and warm lips
and there is that tongue again
slippery candy can kayak taking a tongue trap ride
Imagination
isms
that dark haired beauty crawls through the doorway again
she sings happiness is a warm gun
but she doesnt know happiness is a warm gun like i
know happiness is a warm gun
she's a lone star on the range
but her baby buddy with the size small sticker on her foot
and is small
doesnt please her
who says please, please me again?
Imagination
isms
isms
isms

a google poem

Lip Gloss,
PUSSY PUCKER POTS
..LESBIAN ...
PUSSY PUCKER POTS
..LESBIAN..VEGAN..
Strawberry Snatch

with gusto

a poem by Cato and the Green Hornet (Melissa Coyle and Jenna Goldsmith)

The light slid in envelopes
stole a curtain for clothes
waking to open the rusty cages
letting the machines breathe

new electricity into the power lines
plagiarizing graffiti off the overpass
the stop today is dusty heaven

chickens hanging by their necks from the highwire
poor poultry, poor poultry
this shit would never fly in Denver

where the crowds paid us in what they could give
so chimps become gods and midgets got stoned

we wrote poems about things that never happened
and shook blood hands after carving “howl” into our palms with a “to go” fork

to the dismay of Linda our waitress
cause we tipped her in horse feed and the shavings from our pencils
and I said damnit, how’s that for educational!

so for one week I made and sold candlesticks
but a beard on a lady, on the road
is lies to a beatnik-revolving the earth

oh well we still have our eyebrows
whatever.

here you me

tell me that you’re here.

remove the blinders that impeded my perception
(bolting to my skull bone like a helmet
not protecting me from anything)
so I can see.

unwrap my heart like a candy
placing it to you mouth
(the air is no longer swirling song
and unsafe)
so I can melt.

engrave my skin and make me understand
(don’t mind the hair, it will grow back
press your thoughts to my chest
hard)
so I can feel.

smother me in something dense
(like a wet sigh
or a muffled breath that you never meant to share
but I caught
only because I was under your mouth)
so I can hear you.

these things tell me you are here.

morning activities

stripping
the bed, glancing at
chocolate honey hair
contrasting milky tones
cover insides that only hours ago
worked overtime
you became graceful between 3 and 4
you became a traveler around 5
taking time to go over the nights blur
you make me water
tiptoeing the floor which
has become a minefield of the sum of your parts
and I simultaneously count
the imperfections of your back
coming up with approximately
zero.

for anne, for living

what was it about living, for living
was the problem for you.
words electric; life giving compulsion and spirit
and they spun a sticky web for you,
they buildt something made
to catch you.
the slit was enough to pass through
opening your mouth to death's morsel
still you pursed those ruby red's in affectionate disgust
and smiled in the accomplishment.

oh, i am your friend
i can glance across the table at you,
all neuroses and knuckles
stale smokes and cool looks, you are
amidst the smooth smoke balloon strings
they escape your face where they are able, driving heavenward
but not by choice
why would they want to

and what you needed was enclosed
in those four walls
if only you knew.
a radio, some words flush on the pages of a book
and the ink in the typewriter
because you wouldnt use a pen

did your Icarus ever ascend to you, Anne?
from the exciteable sun, for
you tamed the sea and sky
buoyed by words
just living to die.

hwy 173 (back to belvidere)

jokes that i have become to her are contained here.
when the dawn came she took off
her gauzy white robe
positioning herself in the sun,
on the expanse,
behind two sturdy wheels (assuming a smooth ride)
but i was the crooked spoke adjacent.

this pinion gear (she built the hardware)
is the wheel of our circumstance and
she will not have it.
one, maybe two times i gobbled up bone-thin goodness,
obvious fleshy cheeks behind a turned back
and what was it to us but a fork in the road
albeit a wrong turn,
as it was so clear that i had rolled far
far ahead of myself.

is their room for function in form anymore?
we must dwell on the past for composition
easy for her to say, yet there was something
compelling in the wrong
of her right of way.

so was that really me in the days
she cites, in verbose speech she makes
from faraway places
i will never go.
beats her mind caught
just to catch.
adding growth and pressure to
her swollen brain which heavily rests on my hand
pacing on rainstreaked streets in time to
the excitement
bending through space
contained in her fluids,
creating excrement for my senses.
recalling hips under her slender fingertips
that shake like string on an instrument
only she knew how to play.

recall the crooked spoke
not meant to travel.
but the round faces i touch can turn
eyes to me for every uninhibited emotion.
and for the emerging energy
the most satisfying ride there will be,
will be.