Coop Lee Nov 2016
girls, boys, friends, and words
morning river stones and stoners
water/smoke/gold bits
home known lips
years beautifully dreaming
maybe ***
maybe house, and teeth, and stars, and *****
family thinking,
father, children, trees and feet/fort
of blankets
earthy far places/closer in pictures
legs been dancing
lovers been drunk beneath their best thoughts
gone
to air-like warm place, autumn
hand, or
deep fingered fruit and flame
alive to die
to die, is life
truely lived in color and crayola
kids making breathy art of movement, sport
to tongue and run
thinking of leaves, the spirit dog breathes blue
dreaming of big cool animals
he once saw
the meat of wilderness/tenderness
woman, she works the red dust
memories of street ancient holy ***** heights
fun nights/fights/***** given
party lost body making ****** form waves, pool
full on tall-tales and books to seed
an empire
a televised endless story of flesh and
remember
a life, survived
passed on to a throng of youth
free spirits/springtime adventures
bottled pink sheets and the american lawn
bone-war in a distant existence
closer seen in pictures
fictions, stories told
retold, father’s factory soaked skull
his spit sweetened up in the mountains
goats we were, ready/ not ready
escaping slaughter
speaking of forests and ritual vengeance
popcorn blunted ghouls envisioned by pungent neighborhood momentum
weekend, high
Coop Lee Aug 2016
took the peel of a brooklyn sunburn to see
me and you were overexaggerated tensions stretched
across the time it takes to ***** nilly a nickel-bag &
into an endless weekend only bonged of in fables and videotape tomes
you fled the rooftop
to grill a cheese, and hold the beat of something new
Coop Lee Mar 2016
that’s my kind of girl,
with the long and big teeth.
she rolls a joint.
licks it.
complete.

        “dinosaurs ****** **** up,

she says,
and we breathe big clouds,
escape the beetle-wood plague.

shapeshifter kids
thumb through the guts of a dead mammoth
/or mastodon.
i never know which is which.
Coop Lee Feb 2016
she’s out there on the ice again.
holy night &
positioning the gas-tanks just right.

joseph is her father, and his father,
even if not by blood,
raised flame.

foot to throat, brother remains
in the city working.
he is building a rocketship
in the basement of his apartment
complex.

back to town and dying houses.
foreclosures and fences.
lake of fire.

lights: she lingers in lights.
something so true and alive about the revelatory
of color,
of the world when lit and hit by sun
or our artifice.

her lovers: one dead by heavy
lumber, the other rewinding videotapes
in chasms of the library.
she thinks on his lips.

her dog tracks wet prints
across the carpet and floors.

wish list:
        mittens
        huckleberry jam
        iphone solar charger
        explosives
previously published in Midwestern Gothic, Literary Journal
http://midwestgothic.com/2011/01/issue-18-summer-2015/
Coop Lee Nov 2015
blood cultures and cures itself through generations of tussle toned memory and some say tree, others say heap, to repeat and replicate and reduce and swill upon the marrow of each moment until dead. we are so simply, so utterly convoluted by the concepts of our modern features and the divine right of our so-sung pleasure pallet, that we forget the supple sweet meaning of who we are, or were, and want to be, but are, and that is that. for vengeance is bliss. and in that, war is industry. and if that, love is a game. and from that, a necessity, found only between two beings for the sole purpose to creature. create, er.

somewhere sits and breathes good breath the woman i once loved. a phone lights her face in some darkness and war is the last thing on her mind. her mind is on kissing him and/or writing poetry on typewriter n lovely south africa or luminous europa, the american girl caught by a worldly swirl, unfiltered furl, and accompanied by the right kind of people, to end the day cawing and into the night. she is happy now. she is rolling large blunts and preparing the blood clot for another decade abroad in beautiful contemplation, pass the storm.

it doesn’t matter, the city kid that is twentysomething me, adrift and alone and dreaming all too much. i take acid at the edge of some dumb party where some dumb chick kisses me reminding me of some dumb day or thing, or just dumb love, perhaps.
spring gave us summer which fell into a winter, and that is all. but again.
we are an american family american dreaming, and that is all. but again.
new dog on a beach, new father in a driveway, new daughter in a hurry. stories told and retold to ourselves and others and mutated into new truths, new news, new bruises but embellished new hopes and hungers. our lives rely solely upon the grease of each knuckle, each elbow, luck or no luck, we work for our happiness. we work away the days until death like microbials of some ancient-era ooze, chanced in blood and bacterial tradition.
Coop Lee Nov 2015
one thousand shards, my crown was built.
not of thorns.
but bubblegum legos, saturday morning stuck
to the carpet
& days gone by.

crept out of fold and gut/   kid living
& watched by trees.
autumn watches us fall like leaves,
born of the belly and the mother.
mom quiet/

dad loud/
  men hid behind blisters and ***.
  men hid behind tall towers and the bomb.
  men bled for immortality,
  warred and ****** resource for more, the door
  to an endless life.

dad taught me how the heart and brain behold blood,
& how the body manifests it/    
moves it/
follows the sun.
son follows father follows *** follows ghoul.
dad taught me about the machete.
           about how “our fates will dominate us blind.
                               so man dominates the jungle.”
he told me a story of love and more glory.
of poor men and dead men.
machete theories.

he carved wooden chairs.
built a lodge.
fished the river,
    & reeled to forget the war.

harpoon the river gods.
the heart and brain behold blood,
& the body manifests it.
Coop Lee Nov 2015
teddy told me i got mad skills.
like my abilities come from some kinda legendary force, or jesus,
tall-me amongst the heap
of asphalt trimmings and songs.
bottlerockets & girls.

her body brings swarm of worms.
decomp, said
the f.b.i. men one by one
with tweezers.
i hear loud electrical hums late into the night;
up in that great nest of wire & bird bones.

new neck tat &
cody spends his paycheck on a crossbow.
we target practice on a bull skull,
our wet cigarettes
& turpentine socks huffed in the dry roofline
beside the rain.

that little boy in his mask is tap-dancing
below the streetlamp, puddles
& old oversized shoes.
his grandma watches from the window.
she is teaching him magic.

unit 13: where the young woman once
dolled herself in the mirror.
men & headlights rolled thru thrice weekly,
maybe more.
i remember her red lips &
white hat; her
watering flowers.
she is the dead.

deputy hart.
he loved her.
stole her clothes in the middle of night,
& sat beside the river sobbing into clumped fists
of bra & blouse.

josiah, fat kid rarely seen,
he emerges one day to the mailbox.
a package/prize.
a decoder ring.
secrets to be set free.
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