Remember the afternoon we watched
the police drag the lake searching
for the Williams boy as we drank
Dr. Pepper?

There was a hell of a crowd
you had both hands on
Shelly’s *** & she
****** down her

thighs when the kid
bobbed up, face
pale blue, eyes
wide.

You probably think this poem is about
Lisbon, Portugal, where women
dangle your imagination like
a necklace of sun-dried
currants. No,

Lisbon, Iowa, a town twenty-two
miles removed from the 21st
century, where I stopped
for coffee, flipped eggs
and a place to ****
on my way home

from  god what  a day;
a man ordered a plate
of Rice Krispie bars
and tea—shuffled

his wallet for ten minutes,
made me nervous
like he was on
Thorazine;

it was the last
time I visited
Lisbon.

I'm tired of
Waiting for
The rest of
The world to
Catch up
With you
& I

I know it's
No way to
Think but
One day
We will both
Die and all
This wasted
Time being
Apart is
Making that
Day draw
Closer &
Closer

I don't
Want to be
Away from
You and you
Don't want to
Be away from
Me and neither
Of us want to be
Away from us

We will happen
Whether they
Want us to
Or not

I saw two dogs
White and black
On their hind legs
Playfully fighting
On a lawn
Manicured
Into sterility
Minus the
Blanket of
Yellow from
The shedding trees
Coats

I felt like
My life was
Woefully
Behind
That there
Was a black
Hole or a
Black cloud
That followed me
Around

I thought that
All my answers
Were in the bottom
Of all types
Of bottles and
Pipes and
They were nowhere
I should have
Known that they
Were never there
In the first place

I try to
Distract myself
The best that I
Can
Much like
Everyone else
But sometimes
There is a
Chewing worm
At the back of my
Mind
A writhing snake
In my herb
Garden and
I can't help but
Decapitate it
With my *****
And go inside
And have a glass
Of lemonade

Good luck all
As we march on
Into ruins and
A blizzard of
Hot ashes

Son, you were feral to remain within your sac;
the doctor slit your mother’s perineum
and you gasp breath.                                                          ­    

My  secret to you on that  day is the same
as I whisper today;  be the rare
pearl but do not

couple yourself to a strand, I did not raise
you to be like me,
not one bit.

I am at my best at early a.m. when I click
the radio on and listen to NPR
interviews of people from

countries like Scotland, Nigeria, and Italy;
not long ago I heard a Swede tell how
he pickles Harbor

seal meat,  and a day ago  a Mexican
who was shot through the tailbone
by a child with a .22 rifle

argued  her country has pitiful
accommodations for
the handicapped.

Learning of the Swede, Mexican,
and slain seals liven me;
and then the sun rises.

I was walking on a
Leaf covered path
The oranges
Yellows
And browns
Of fall carpeting
The fractured asphalt

My dad walked beside
Me with the hounds

"It smells so good
Everything is just
Starting to decay"

The oddly sweet
Perfume of a
Dying forest is
Lovely

He told me
That his wife's
Ex husband's
Wife had
Shot herself
During her
Lunch break

He came home
And found her
There by herself
Much like she had
Been for a long
Time

"Jesus"
I said
"That's awful
No one deserves
To find that"

My dad looked
Out at the massive
Flock of floating geese
On the reservoir
Honking loudly
At one another
As the setting sun
Painted a golden
Streak through the
Water

"Dying is bad
Enough"
He said
"To self inflict
It is doubly
Worse"

I agreed with
The doubly
Worse part

Maybe dying
Isn't that bad
The leaves don't
Sob or scream
As they rot and
Fall to blanket
The ground

I'd like to think
She didn't either

I know that
The trees don't
Mourn their
Lost leaves
And I know
They won't cry
For me