Put on your make up
while we're in the car
peyote in our air
travelling through the desert
holding hands
air conditioner broke
smoking 4 dollar cigarettes
kissing
wiping the sweat off our faces
with old shirts
torn sweaters
you wore a dress
that exposed your knees
no bra
and your shoulders were bright
like your eyes
it was 100 degrees
lip stick smeared on the rear view mirror
when we kissed kansas goodbye
driving with no shoes on
let's stop for gas
but the wind
the heat the peyote and the lips of yours are
keeping me on the road
melting like hot candle wax
we stopped at a motel
the windows let in a draft of hot air
coffee machine broken
the cable television speaking spanish
making love
listening to dogs bark
as if we were aristocrats
in a private box
at an opera
the sink leaked
adding background static
to the sounds of the air conditioner humming
sputtering for air
we bought bad whiskey
took off our clothes
fell asleep in the sand mixed with mexico's moon light
when I woke up
my good sweater was gone
the 1980'd-rusted-flat tired-oldsmobile was gone
she left me a cigarette
the rest of whiskey.

a porcelain grizzly bear is on my desk table
I stole it from a gas station in Oklahoma
driving 100 miles per hour
in the hope for something hopeful
a tiny minuet grasp of freedom of the road
of the cigarette endlessly burning
endlessly producing knowledge
imagination
little scroll stories that flash through the mind like rain drops or
shooting stars at night
or the clock on the microwave turning from 4:00
to 4:01

A subconscious journey
a path
a walkway
a minor walkway into the many hallway'd mind
perhaps there are no doors
no official room or building
simply hallways binding into one another like ******* eye lashes on a woman of 47
and in these hallways there are rats that like to chew on the soles of your high heeled boots
leaving you
bare foot
then the hallway floors turn into your stomach
flabby
filled with chicken skin and peanuts
A subconscious dilemma
dementia
the dogs got loose
I'll trace them by the foot prints left in the desert like snow

“Ah” my money brother told me
a snow storm
I cover my eyes only to see that I am starving from the wind
and food is scarce in my belly
everyone is dying of hunger
but the poet eats on his fingernails and the poems he abortions through the vaginal mind imagination that creates in his skull made up of glue metal objects and pizza boxes left out on side streets for hounds cats and old serial killer'd military men have left the war only to find trash on the side street and windows with yellow lanterns flaming up in the night like a forest fire
or a **** girl of 16 running through the city streets high on methamphetamines
I called the doctor he's drunk on something I made up in my mind
and Beethoven is on the bathroom shooting up ****** which isn't mine
where is the poem heading
only the humming bird and and ant on the wall will because they do not care
I am hiding something beneath the crevasses of my fingernails of 5
of 10
of 20
of 15
“there's nothing to whisper about” I told her sleeping ear in the midst of drunk A.M. night with nothing to do but make love smoke cigarettes and comment on the noises outside city of sirens that do not attract but chase the negros of criminal car thieves and the drug dealers of KCMO

she took off her dress
something glowed in her eyes
on her belly
in her *******
her legs that grew like plants in a swamp
or in a pond where the deer feed and drink
I kissed her lightly
I saw the moon shake in jealousy
so I left the room through the window
I crawled on my highheeled knees onto the roof and sang
I sang
I sang a song that didn't make sense  and I puked up tiny words of
misleading information to the past of my life
van
desert city Michigan land of
rusting
rusted
old broken toyed up frozen over
antiques
the pond is frozen over
winter won't leave me alone
poking at my eyes
the wind plays a sad song
I miss the tree of life
I want to taste the forbidden apple
but I burnt my tongue on a hot iron
or was it boiling whiskey that I drank from the oven

I took a step into a hole
the subconscious mind began the breath like a young man that crashed in a blue volvo in 1963 on a street next to a ***** house and the lights were loud and the women were thin with
thin
thin
thin
thin
and their ******* pointed
and there eyes shifted only to God
only to 1 dollar bills and the 1 whiskey and 1 more pill of the serene night
of that
hope of finding beauty in a high
but the Trees burn
and the soil is over used
bare no child dirt
the children are deaf and blind and cant run up a mountain
reach the stars
reach the ravens
reach for the
violin
that corrodes the mind like lice
like bleach on the bathroom floor
like termites in the basement
chewing on a sound
gnawing on the night's temple
this may be a problem
painting you
I'm out of oils
and the fridge is warm
that is where I keep my pistol
turn the heat on
turn the water off
lets go out dancing
lets make love
lets ****
lets kiss
lets talk about the sky
as we sit
on our bellies
drinking wine
drinking the dogs breath
drinking the hands sweat
drinking the intellectual thoughts of a book
the book is dead
Savio stands with a sword and cuts his own throat
yet nothing pours out
what is next
where does the Van go from here
where is the next highway thought
the next Used Car Dealer Ship
where is aluminium bathroom
the dishwasher with no dishes
the light bulb that dangles like a child's loose tooth in his molding to man mouth

Look over there
child
mother
indian man with no hair
old?
80?
50 probably
look over there God
look over there
look over there
behind those strange purple white blue trees
I think I see myself
standing in water
with toes
with fingers and fish circling my ankles
look over there
a deer spine
a dogs leash
an unwashed sweater that cost 50 dollars

all my pants have holes in them
all the paintings in my house are fake

her bodied was patina'd
by a kiss of lipstick

soothing
the ride back home
a swig of alcohol
as the city night ***** dominated
quietly burns
where is the loud jazz?
bursting like ******* through windows
where is the passion?
where is the drooling for a womans touch?
where is the television with a baseball in it's skull?

where is the wisdom?
I can only hold onto this rope for so long
my hands are soft
and sore
and this hole is deep
this hole smells like New Mexico
this place stinks of dog and a man who cannot wake up from a dream
because the woman he loves
is in an ocean
and he's chasing her
his eyes are strong and wide
his mouth is full of salt water
and as he looks up
there is snow
there is snow and the water freezes over
and his lover is far
she is on the other side of the shore
she is beautiful in the snow
and his eyes grasp onto that beauty
before he is frozen still


a seagull in winter flies with the crows
what a beautiful sight
I once met an ant
on a leaf of a tomato garden
the ant didn't say much
I complemented him on his life span of a day
I asked him if he ever contemplated suicide
but I guess he never got the chance
the garden dies
the tomatoes grew ill colored
and the stems
that were once straight
like young women in sun dresses
now bends
like an old man reaching for his glasses on the pavement in a sand storm of pain
he hollers out in his used up antique washed out voice of time and too many cigarettes too many women's lips and too much coffee at 5 Am
cursing death
to come
cursing god
to reveal himself
like *******
and the Garden begins to decompose
like that of a squirrel in a suburb street
or a mouse in the cats feline belly
the garden descends bent-wardly to death
to the ground
to the origin of life
of  seed.

A journey into a subconscious mind
or maybe the glance through a dying man's eye glasses.

I'm kind of freaking out
Arizona is sleeping with another man in a cigarette based bedroom
there is still liquor in my pupil'd eyes
the oh great AM insomniac lamp
is dusty
with someone else’s fingerprints
on her *******
i reached for the moon
and only felt snow
the books are staring at me
not saying a word
my breath is thick
i'm out of cigarettes
I've got a few dollar bills
I'll buy coffee and ink pens to keep me up
i need to keep track of the phases of the moon
its 56 degrees
wearing only a sweater
I'm freaking out
Winter may never end
I may not be able to leap from the ceiling
i can't stand up
or grow a beard
i'm slightly insane
or slightly sane
i'm still figuring out how she walks
and the road signs
leading to mexico
i must be crazy
mimicking the speech impediments of the walls

If I had the hands of the sky,
the colors of Monet's secret insight,
a pigment of an Ocean,
unsailed,
by human kind,
what color would I paint you?
How man days can I Starve,
to stay alive,
If I had a canvas,
as large,
as white,
as the moon,
how would I describe you,
snow crunches,
beneath my feet,
I light a cigarette,
breath thick,
honey,
molasses,
dog fat,
If I were to build you,
could I use the tombstone of Beethoven,
grandmother's woolen blanket,
the missing piano key,
a harp string,
moth's wing,
winter's bulimia,
night's insomnia,
a dream's last breath,
novel's,
Last line,
Neruda's breath,
Shiva's golden temple,
a goddess' breast,
the highway's Texan accent,
a humming bird's,
silent flight,
the pollen of a sunflowers,
the ****** user's,
high,
Indian's leather,
a mother's palm,
sad song,
Michigan's final night,
If I were to kiss you,
how again,
would you taste,
too many nights,
have separated my memory.

He was an old old man,
sitting in a chair,
older than he was,
he would sit in that old chair,
staring at the Corn Field,
maybe he saw something spectacular,
maybe God,
or an Angel,
he would take deep inhales,
as if they were his last,
making them count,
getting in one last victory,
the smell of his land,
the trees,
the animals,
the ski,
the planet,
but he never went,
he sat there,
rocking back and forth,
the farm was always quiet,
no visitors,
the rain came at times,
graying over the land,
which he didn't enjoy very much,
he'd close his big,
heavy wrinkled worn eyes,
and imagine running through the rain,
through the Corn Field,
as he did when he was young,
young and didn't think too much,
the Corn Field glowed,
like hot metal it glowed,
sometimes he never slept,
he'd just stay up for days,
Monklike,
no food,
no water,
no using the restroom,
almost stunned,
stunned by what?
I couldn't say for sure,
but his big green eyes,
were weighted on that Corn,
the rain would come,
and the house made a funny noise,
you could hear the birds,
chirping,
scattering looking for a dry place,
you could hear the road,
being drenched,
the hard rain drops,
smacking against the old paved road,
getting so loud,
only a hum came about,
emerging across the hill like a silent marching band,
or a group of lost holy men,
chanting humming something of significance,
but the sound of the rain drops,
tapping the leaves of the Corn,
that,
he could hear intently,
with this he'd softly press his aged lips together,
close his eyes,
and inhale,
suggesting to Death, or God,
that this moment,
is perfect for me to go,
but the rain was still to be watched by him,
the *** holes in the road,
filled like the palms of a child,
as it rained,
was to be heard by him,
he was okay with this,
he was okay with the duty he had,
to keep record,
of the beauty,
he had heard,
weeks would pass,
before seeing a truck,
a lonely old steel car,
or even the zig zagging hum of a fertilizing air plane,
he felt at times he wasn't even on Earth,
the he had died,
last harvest,
when the rain never came,
and the corn dried up,
and crumbled over on itself,
but he had food,
cans and cans of beans,
which he lived off of for a year,
but the corn had come back,
and he sat in the chair,
with wonderful eyes.

We listened to jazz all night,
I had no wine in the tiny fridge,
that was,
supposed to be the kitchen,
we took *****,
I kissed her stomach,
as she lit,
red cigarettes,
with a yellow lighter,
that was thin,
like her neck,
long long long like her,
legs,
we made love with the lights burnt out,
from staying up,
for so many nights,
laying on the hardwood floor,
discovering silver-wear underneath the couch,
and coffee mugs,
to pour our,
Gin into,
that costs 3 dollars,
at the downtown,
liquor store,
we made the city,
smell like cigarettes Gin and ***,
the dogs barked,
2 blocks away,
when she moaned,
and Norwegian birds,
migrated here,
to nest,
to listen to her sing,
when she,
took a bath,
we listened to jazz all night,
on the tiny radio,
that blinked the incorrect time,
and when she left,
I kept the bills paid,
the tiny fridge,
full of wine,
and grew my beard,
when she left,
the jazz at 2 AM,
seemed sadder,
and the piano,
sounded,
more like a her saying goodbye.

jazz,
jazz,
swing,
dancing melt city on the hot side walk,
where,
little boys in jeans play,
baseball,
newyorkcity,
newyorkwomen,
newyorkgraveyards,
new­yorkbackalleys,
newyorktelephonecall,
call her at 2 AM,
drunk on a wine only the bums know about,
i bought a pack of,
cigarettes this morning,
i'm all out,
the side walk tilts,
untying my shoe laces,
and knotting my eye lashes,
she picks up after the 4th ring,
she's dressed to go out,
she's dressed to be undressed and to be kissed,
she's dressed for me,
jazz or something like a Medieval God,
shakes and vibrates and quakes and ******* down the street,
it sounds like rich whiskey in cheap glasses,
and sweating trumpet players and women dancing with their legs and skirts up,
i tell her to meet me on 6th avenue,
where everything comes to make sense,
with the whiskey,
the jazz,
the women in short dresses,
and the club is loud,
leaking out only certain noises,
specific laughs and,
the important notes,
played on the piano,
and squeezed from the,
saxophone,
like a poppy flowers ***** milk,
the payphone rings,
but i'm gone.