i want to rip my muscles
upon some worthwhile thing
anything-- give me canvas,
steel, pen, give me the scaffolds
of this rotten world, the hammer
the nail, the blowtorch.

Spare a thought for the drowned world
axis spinning raucous, thrashing for air
in garbage water, in bad dreams
a plague of visions. no oracle sleeps.
Where do you sleep, brother of my sin,
arm of the father that beats this mother
earth and can't remember her name? My name
is as dead as the earth, stuck somewhere
in the impenetrable afterlife of the Atlantic-
wet stomach groaning shale,
rotten bicycles coughed onto the shore
of this new world of fog & lightning.
We will not be greeted as gods again
ours is the weight of dead bees,
a waste of April.

The flu has pushed the shoppers
away from this litter of bananas
coaxing my tongue for better health.
Strange things play in the air
between the cashier and the customer
wringing alcohol on her hands.
From Kentucky to New York,
we've come to dress like surgeons
and fear the bad blood of a handshake
or dollar bill. I grab my things as night grows
outside the automatic doors. Under the rinsers
& harsh light of the produce aisle,
a truth dies and a myth takes its name.

Black foam, our drinking bread,
Walk troubled, we do, hearts sloshing
In tighter and tighter chests. Bray, bark,
a howling of directions and orders--
too many open mouths, too much
of the whip. When will we be released?
They say well past midnight, beyond the sleep of masses, ghosts above the garden
eating weeds.
We cannot touch.

a valley, a valley
for my sleep, inward embracing
a holy moment of silence before
ascents, questions, anxious wing
of a moth, an animal in famine,
the goat that travels the brink
Fall. Rise. Whatever comes first
his brother follows, the sister frowns
behind the veil, aslee,
Asleep.

kaleidolon the hisser
pink
ragged rose
above an empty jar--
his hair broke like glass
i keep a faucet of his
hisser

the bloom dawdles and yawns,

cracking a taste of purple

on my waterfat thigh.

you are among the greats
the grand
the unholy giants
their feet stamp the earth
to fine dust their hands
****** our insides you
take what is not given
it is taken from the beginning.
what is left i don’t know
maybe regretting the hatred’s
spew, the battered women,
many half-eaten teeth
ground to their cores in fits
of anxiety, depression,
upped drug prices i am
sure of your devices
i am sure of your ends.

i'm a southern boy

with a southern mind

southern lips

southern eyes

i'm a southern man

he who buys

southern hips

with southern lies



down south heat

baked bone lives

downtown crooks

with softer knives

the hippest kids

some Memphis folk

hot fried eggs

bowls and tokes



on down yonder

up o'er dere

cast-iron fingers

rusted hair



it rocks my pocket

and shakes my knee

t'see cat on the corner

and a dog in the street

but that's hard cash

and a filthy life

here in *****

here in strife



twangy me

twangy wimp

simple *******

you're a lil' limp

lame in the legs

fast in mind

lazy *******

you'll get left behind

you're no devil

but you're no saint

quit making silly songs

****, too late

Pipe-smoke, a wet night-
Studying arcane whispers,
The tower breaks.

The ego in the silent world-
February brings snow,
like a spider's crawl.

I don’t know what to make of this. The half-naked Russian model rupturing in the tub, one hand rubbing salt from her habit of weakness, another clutched a swill of wine. Her pill-loaded lover, always blurring. Both too young to bear the death poem of lullabies. In another room, in another town, a redhead stranger sits soaking next to me, governing my drunk body back to senses with her mouth. Outside, a gaggle of youths perch the water’s edge, lapping beer from a spillage of shadows. Soon, they’ll beat their wings madly and rush the night air, running on nothing but ***, *****, and lace. Giddy and octane. I won’t know what to do with it or make of it, still, years later in life… an even more ragged crackpot, taking potshots at poems.

You black-breathed ones, you
coroners of taste. Ring me again
at 5 in the morning and you’ll know me
for worse. Paint-smeared, you stencilers,
you self-imposers imposing yourselves on
my breast, blubbering of goddesses and
jeweled necks—break yours straining
to have mine. Little chickens pecking the dirt
you’ve had morsels enough. Salarymen, you
daddy men, men of drink and belt: I am not fat,
or skinny, for you.

Oh! storm,

lovely dark storm

quiet strolling ready

storm, i was about to ask

why you linger on

but that’s a silly question

in the face of mountains

and great wheels

the seated god speaks
punctured, the larynx leaks
glades of green lush
and overflow the breast
heaving muted breath
into our deeper sleep

a gape was slaked,
the throat was shut
but the womb is wide
pattern rejection
corpulent fear
a human, raw cry

my girl is the raven, the seraph's wing
budding from an egg on the windowsill
heralding mysterious ways.
my girl is palm trees deep in hurricanes,
licked in the salt of the North Sea glowing
with the moonbeam, with time.
my girl is the taxi driver smiling with gold teeth
jewels far beyond the thieves, the cops
my girl is MARTA on time every single day
my girl is e v e r y subway on time my girl,
heh, my girl is even the unexpected text
from mom saying I love you, the one you fear
but need not, the wide open april morning the
cat balled up on your ribs, yawning for rays of sun
the mansion for homeless communists, a myth
in person, the magic beans the skeptic doesn't know
what to do with, my girl is here for me,
my girl is a key to many doors she is the key to
t h e door.

You are the movement of ******
in a ******’s body– muffled innards aghast
under dim light, crooked spoons stalling
the atom’s speed to a cigarette drag.
If you’ve come to meet the woman
she is cloud now, a sprout of white melting
into the blues, the infinites--body forgotten
in the wastes of heaven.