i'm going to die alone,
before my skin withers,
before my mother, father
sister and both brothers.

i hope to fade out
to the sound of another
televised war,
where the purpose is
lost in verbose.

no more small town cops,
self-taken mirror pics of ****** bags in flex,
no more tan blondes with gargantuan sunglasses,
no more left wing, right wing, chicken wing,
nor laughter or warm beer,
no more neighbors, so-called friends, or fast food,
no more retail ****** or gun-toting *****,

only me, my old friend misery,
and perhaps a ****** eternity.

they will smoke cheap, borrowed cigarettes.
they will drink cheap, borrowed *****.
and they will stay miles away.
and they will experience the most complex emotions.

writing small town songs,
dealing with cheating girls
              and
****** bags and godliness.

they will play at veteran bars.
they will play at festivals.
and they will flicker.
and they all will dissolve.

living at home with mom.
dealing with whiny girls
                and
******* and defense mechanisms.

blanket my flaw.
make me easy
to consume.

lights out.

we can pretend
i am one you want.
i am pretty.

lights out.

i am less alive,
but that's hard to tell
with the

lights out.

Spring:
A hill without a name
Veiled in morning mist.

The beginning of autumn:
Sea and emerald paddy
Both the same green.

The winds of autumn
Blow: yet still green
The chestnut husks.

A flash of lightning:
Into the gloom
Goes the heron's cry.

First snow
falling
    on the half-finished bridge.

Don't imitate me;
it's as boring
    as the two halves of a melon.

A snowy morning--
by myself,
    chewing on dried salmon.

Awake at night--
the sound of the water jar
    cracking in the cold.

At a hermitage:

    A cool fall night--
getting dinner, we peeled
    eggplants, cucumbers.