God teases my ingrown heart,
with an angel,
with michigan great lake eyes,
the color,
of an allusion,
to the bible's,
holiest thought,
an old version of Leaves of Grass,
lays coughing at my side,
"I will read you when the time comes"
i whisper into the empty room,
of mirrors,
and cheap bottles of city wine,
a beetle,
and I,
contemplate eachother,
it,
scurries into an old pair of shoes,
that a ****** Indian ******,
traded me,
for words,
of beauty,
of dried mud.

girl in purple dress,
you are thin,
skin,
white yet fogging blue,
like the shadow,
of the Moons glow,
on the back porch,
where a spanish uno rosa,
is pink petal-less,
Girl thin moon shine purple dress,
you are the,
winter abandoned rose,
which I still reminisce,
just like side walks,
roads,
and windows,
do,
after it rains.

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.

when it rains
everything seems still
her body has the curves
of the grooves on wood
following the path of a moth
a woman
and three children
in a van
drop off phone books
and newspapers
onto front steps
at 4am
and it rains
nothing plays on their radio
she kisses them to sleep
“don't worry”
and they're asleep
but the bills aren't paid
and the hot water
is turned off
Tomorrow
the electricity
a boy without a home
grew up on the highway
the passing vehicles
the passing buildings
people
street lamps
hills
rivers and lakes
streets and turn signals
were his
friends
his television
When it rains
Everything stops moving
and breathes
I am still a boy
at twenty
When I can't sleep
I walk to the highway
and sit
the humming road
the humming 18-wheelers and automobiles
remind me of resting on my mothers heart
I drive to the city
To look at the buildings that are never asleep
To sit in wooden cafés and drink cheap black coffee
I am not a poet
Just a boy
Still on a highway
gazing at the world
75mph
these are my finger drawn pictures
on a foggy van window.

I would write a
haiku
but there is to much on my mind.

poems to read
nights to think
silence to obtain.

drunk on the winter temperature
heavy sweater
lighting a cigarette.

Late night television
Late night television
Late night television.

we walked to the frozen lake
drew our names
in the snow.

My eyes are heavy
the heart is
some where beneath all this skin.

my tiny wood table
its belly
full of poetry and my eye lashes.

I don't think i'll sleep
tonight
just lay here.

It's easy to be a fool
It's easy
falling in love.

"Hello"
i kissed her
snowing.

Ocean of sounds,
lights are forever,
Gods,
are forgotten,
while man,
is forever,
like a lost letter,
like an abondoned car,
like a kiss,
like her eyes,
that Sailors and jail keepers,
carve her image,
onto wood,
Ocean of thoughts,
storm of eyes,
palm of hope,
palm of destiny,
as we all,
sigh,
reminiscing.

Savio woke to the hot sun opening up to his window,
creeping through the lined cracks of his little wooden shack,
Savio was 23 and had never gone to school,
He read old newspapers that were thrown on the dirt road,
sometimes a day old,
other times a week,
On a good day the sun will be gentle,
and the mud isn't too wanting,
and your boots fit right,
and a Newspaper is from that morning,
On a good day.

Other days,
Savio and twenty other,
picked the Oranges,
placed them into long mesh yarn'd bags and carried them away off to the pick up-trucks.

There was a woman he loved,
She had hands that a Tarantula would fall in love with,
she painted them red,
either to match the color of her lips,
or the fact that she,
was lust,
plucking at gluttony,

She could never pick as many Oranges as Savio could,
So Savio would walk to her and smile at her cheek bones,
and smile at the way her eye lashes curved like the way her lips did,

Her name was Bitellie,
She cooked for Savio,
Bitellie picked up what she could,
from his little wooden cracked shack,

The smell of Oranges still on their hands,
Listening too Mario Bauza,
Listening too Mexico crickets and flickering orange talented lamp posts.

It was a rainy day,
and the mud that surrounded the Orange Trees was thick,
yet thin enough to sink you down to just your knees,

Savio had found no newspaper on the side of the road,
It was usually left by someone wealthy,
with the business section folded on top,
Sometimes he would find half a cigarette,
and he would smoke it,
watching the gray blue smoke, tango with the Oranges.

the dog's bark can't reach thru the rain,
it is night,
youth dwells on sunlight,
health and the illusion of time,
escapes me,
escapes the palmless hands,
that search vigorously,
starvingly,
shamelessly,
into the mud,
for gold,
I cannot see over these,
holocaust trees,
there is music,
playing in the mental hospital,
the insane,
are beautiful,
the insane,
are Buddhas,
Zen conquerors,
Nirvana explorers,
I sit with a metallic stare,
tossing change,
pebbles,
at God's door.

Stand in the April rain with me
darling lady with blue September night eyes
my arms are weak
from carrying Oranges and fruits
3 miles to the room
Come out side with me
I have cheap wine
that will make your smile mine
Let's go on a walk
to the forest
to the Sahara desert
no need for that dress
or your
eye make up
I have a pick up truck
I have wings
tattooed with religious hymns
Lets climb the roof
of our apartment building
listen to the birds play piano
the kids running
full of youth
our lives are empty with everything around us
I am the simple creek river
a boy plays a small piano
we'll catch flight on the wing of a Moth
a mother butterfly
I see the moon
the stars a million miles away
winking at us
we'll go to Vegas
buy a car
i'll name you lillian
you can name me Hank
I'll smoke long cigars
live in a house
that is small
and i'll stand at the window
and glare out over the City's River
we'll listen to jazz all night
and catch fire flies with our palms
we'll grow old
and forget the time
on the wall
and roll around in the mud
pick up rocks at the lake
and skip them as far as we can
I'll write songs for the piano
Nights will be long
we'll buy cheap wine
and grow white
we'll stare at the fire place
throw our hats in
throw our clothes in
our wine glasses
our thoughts
our dreams
our finger nail clippers

Then we'll get in the pick up truck
head to mexico
let the house burn
with all our things
and your make up

we'll turn into lizards
into fruit flies
into southern eagles
we'll move in with the clouds
the stars
the moon and its daughter
I'll catch a Red robin
and give it o you
we'll stand in the river
and measure the weather
by the hairs on our skin

We'll have 10 dollars
go to a french film
and at the end
will be the end.

Butterfly ash,
forgoteen on the petal,
of an orange chirping afternoon,
stain spot,
of coffee,
or lipstick,
trailing too a violin shop,
with tiny finger prints,
left on the shop window,
a moths wisdom,
fluttering by my wool ear,
it listens too unsolved symphonies,
or graveless Mozart,
and leaves at 2 a.m.,
out my window,
and when i wake,
the moth is back,
standing on 6a.m.,
there is nothing to say,
so it stays.

The life of a caterpillar
it waits
it does not know what it is waiting for
so it waits
the caterpillar wonders
it is sad
it waits
then the caterpillar
is a butterfly
and the ex-caterpiller
questions
if this
is what he was waiting for

So he waits longer
and white things fall slowly from the sky

and the butterfly questions
if this
is what he has been waiting for

So he waits
his butterfly wings grow weak

the ex-caterpiller dies
and he wonders
if this
is what he was waiting for all along

not the wings
not winter

waiting for a sprang ankle,
or a whiff of cheap cigarette smoke,

some nights,
a spanish guitar keeps me up,
thinking of Georgia,
and the women,
it has stolen from me,

like winter,
has stolen the birds.

It's been quiet all night
my voice has been altered
by red cigarettes
and the piano
late at night
like an infant
crying
across the sea
in france
in italy
lovers kiss
and the night is long and bright
with neon signs
fire flies in the fog by the lake
it's been
quiet all night
my lamp
doesnt say much
there's a taste of leather
in my mouth.

He was going to shoot himself
in the department store parking lot

but people don't read sad stories
not even the beautiful ones


So I'll stop here.

All alone
Savio sat
reading christian hymns
speaking at the doorknobless door
tracing the fracture memory
of her legs
her lips and *******
the shoulders
on the fog
that collects on the one window
fog just for him
or maybe she sent the rain
perhaps its her laugh
that drips from the kitchen roof
into a metallic bucket
perhaps thats her smile
in the gutter
perhaps the lake overflowing is her eyes
maybe thats her beauty
blocking the sun
canceling highways
turning New Mexico into Italy
maybe thats her kiss
her lips
that are making his boots wet
his hair and beard damp
all alone
savio sat
with her.

i am a worm,
who discovered,
you could be a butterfly.
and that river,
we never,
will remember,
stays in my mind,
and i visit it,
at nights, when Ella Fitzgerald ruthlessly comes on the little plastic radio,
and A.M.
will not leave me alone.

It's been awhile
since you've
taken your life
Today I found your
photo
in the trunk of my car
fellow poet
I know it was
peaceful
amongst the
dirt
leaves
the good sun
on your face
with the smell of
pine trees.