I have been beaten, bruised
by your winds and your current
the beauty of the moon has pulled at me
has made the earth and sea wound

I am erosion in its strongest breath
pieces of the sky fall from my waist
and I am losing tender bits of skin
but I keep my lips un-parted

I am hiding from you
as much as I am missing
the feeling of your eyes on me

I have often wondered if
you ever felt not the wind and
the current but the moon itself
carry you in pieces away when
my gaze quietly grabs hold
and tosses distance far and away.

Its a losing tug-o-war
and I'm eight years old again
asking god for favors as if he's in command.

Have you seen the sun?
I can't find the light.

When I'm losing control
follow me down and follow me deep.

I don't need you to save me
and there's no favors I would ask
save for you to catch me
if I don't stand a chance.

You are no god but spirit
strange new soul I've yet to know.

I'm no child but can pretend to be.

I'd just like you
to be the first one to see me
as only something more
than an eight-year-old asking god
for more rope.

You are not a desert rose but a three-headed spike --the reason
for the pinholes in my shoes You are not a soaring
beauty --so many of the souls who call
you home are gnarled and cruel
You are frigid and the vicious
guardians of your sky scream
****** when I walk by You did
not always welcome me despite
the lover's whispers you blew my way
You are merciless --insatiable in how you
thicken my skin with the grit I gnaw
in my teeth You are not a peaceful
sun but a chaotic creator --anarchist
god You are the companion I so dearly miss

Bury me slow in a cowboy
cemetery where
the dirt
on the casket
matches the dirt on the headstone.
I want
to spend forever beside leather

bound men fighting vainly
against skies
far too pleasantly blue. When they come
looking I hope they'll find me weary
and mummified
with men of many pasts by
my side.


They'll see me
worn but fighting on. Gun at my hip
and boots given to wear
ever-etching words of freedom and lines
in the dust of battles past and after
life wars still to come. When my aching
body is quietly lined

with wood, lower me slow. Lower me
into earth of old and legends
lasting and in the land of dirt and
snow-driven beauty I'll lie
until they come
looking for the men beside and find
me instead.

Here's the pitch

        Bukowski's an *******
        But I'll put up
        With his lousy ****
                                                                         First one's a fast ball
        Dickinson's a hermit
        And if we're honest
        All she really needed
        Was to get out of the house
                                                                         Number two and she missed the curve
        Hughes never taught me much
        He was a saint long before
        Death to the far too optimistic man
                                                                          Ball three flies straight to the bat
        Morrison could hypnotize and tried to be
        More than just one bad acid trip
        But no one could quite decide
        If he was any good without the Doors
                                                                          Strike three, ladies and gentlemen
        I'm a hopeful poet
        Who's wondering now what
        It is they'll say about me

You're out!

On the last overpass
Before the outlet malls
Sits a park green with trees
A little oasis before
Altered desert sands
One bush bright with weeds
Pulls its arms in and through
Gaps in chipped olive chainlink
Flailing in the vicious
Car-spun winds beneath
The brambles on the inside
Long to fly without dirt underfoot
The knarlled flowers on the outside
Wish they had the shade
And cool company of trees
But of the branches flowing
In and out of the in-between
I can't say if they want for
Anything but stability