Eighty-one hours of work
Ten hours of driving
And in-between
There is hardly time
For me to find
A full dream

So, I rise from
A slumber
Of unfulfilled
Snips and clips
That make
Madness
My ultimate state

Exhausted
With no
Creative escape
Cause I am
To tired
To create
A single line

He longed to be revealed
Pealed like the layers of an onion
Or plucked like the petals
Of a rose
While Singing
She loves me.
She loves me not.
She loves me.
She loves me not.
Until the last
Layers of flesh
Disappear
And the anatomy
Of love appears
Wet and transfigured
In his transcendent
Affection
A beautiful grotesquery  
Falling in love
With the pain of
Loving someone
Who does not want
To be loved by him

Can you feel the furnace
You seek to stuff my soul into
See the flames licking skin
How sickeningly you sit in
Your sixteen-foot-long pews
Listening to a preacher who spews
Vile lines of ancient lies
How you are devoted to him
Singing love and hellfire hate
In the same song

I saw her put a strange face on
same tint as her old skin
but so much harder
made to display fake affections
guarding her against
false friends
and dangerous heart intruders.

Her skin became plaster.
With each betrayal her heart hardened
as did her skin, flaking and brittling.
Till, angry and trembling
I saw it splinter and splatter
sprinkling sparkly brain matter
on the floor all around her.

Thus, the face that remained
was left disfigured and stained
a permanent portrait of the pain
she had been struggling against.

What a beautiful bottle of
black haired poison she was,
a perfect shade of night.

I slipped in beneath her skin
plunging deeper and deeper inside;
Until her mind consumed mine,
till her needs became mine.

She ripped her wings
and I bled from my shoulder blades.

She scratched her eyes out
and I wept long thin lines
of pungent red wine.

Without any hesitation
She performed a trepanation
so she could shed
the glass that scraped
the insides of her head
and I died instead,

so when her phoenix fire
threatened to consume the world
I flew like a ****** angel
raining wet red roses into her ashes

It is the one part
That does not
Matter
Veins strangle
The pulsing mass
Squeezing till
It is a pulpy goo
Unrequited affections
Scream their torment
Wake me harshly
From dark day dreams
See painted fingernails
Press my flesh
Until skin gives way
To a ****** Sunday
Till my pen is spent
Red ink dripping in
Ancient tableaus
Finds me longing
To do what lovers do
Poisonous asp, or dagger
Skyscraper, or fire
To silence desire’s
Unfair punishment

They see the circle take the square
Going around round here
Without fear
Cutting corners
Till love cycles back
To there is no white or black
Just humans
Hands by the fire
Hands held all together
Till better angels are inspired
One foot into the coals to forge better metals
And our bond finally becomes
Unbreakable in love

Blood begets blood
Wet red forgets
Where it came from
In the maelstrom
Of the war drums
That beat on from

My grandfather
Was murdered by
That group
But he didn’t die
Because of that guy

It was fifty plus years ago
And everyone here knows
Someone who was a victim
My mother, her brother
His wife and children
Your father his sister
Her daughters

Blood quickens
As rage thickens
Pools cross the streets
Faces become pulpy meat
And carnage becomes
More knives, bombs, and guns

The night swallows our sun
As it takes all of our sons
And soldiers become casualties
And school children
Become sidewalk art

And I cannot hold
Anymore horror in my heart
So I empty my vessel
Of summers and springs
To swallow more ****** dreams
All this madness becomes poetry
For you to read
Even though you will not

A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.

Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.

Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.

Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.

So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.

A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"

An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.

"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.

I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.

Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.

We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.

She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.

In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.

Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.


The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....

It is for the loss of me
that my heart grieves.
As memories leave,
the memory tree
loses her leaves.

Inch by inch
The pathways disappear.
Dirt roads are lost.
Playgrounds are swallowed.
Each home crumbles.

Friends faces lose their solid edges.
Hugs lose their tenderness.
Family becomes unfamiliar.

Till, like the worse sculptor ever
Time chips away.
The marble becomes unrecognizable
And even the man in the mirror
Is a stranger.