there's some dream that
sits upon you in the
dark of day
when the hateful
snark and snap of bird song
drags you through
the gutter
to the places you
saw in the sea;
when gusting
floating
reaping the minds
of those you admire in
the night
but hate in the city streets;
you knew them once
in yourself
but lost it
somewhere amongst
the all.

drunk on dandelion milk:
this dragon-fly, cotton-cloud haze
dulls my ears to each petal's cry
as I seek a flower's counsel in love.

God, beautiful God
your savior voice converges
from every direction
but your deafening song, adrift
in a thousand siren winds,
carries flickers of fear to my
spread-open operating table self

how those hands work!
forcep fingers draw red lines
and pluck out the worms
once planted by ache

casting aside swathes of skin
and blood-slick baubles of silver,
you pull out my pearls
and put me back together

crossing my burgeoning breast
are threads of saintly white
my paragon body immune
to pain and love alike

when Eve ate the apple
she did it every day
to keep the blessed
doctor away

i can't forget you
you make it seemingly impossible
with the sudden replies
and pop up visits.
"your scars have faded"
you remark
unaware of how those lips
that forms those words from your liar's mouth
can't be true
because if you looked closely
you would see the new scars
forming on my no longer sacred flesh.
and there are certain things
that i can no longer hide
such as those dark monsters lurking in my closet
and how sometimes i just wish
they'd take me with them when they leave.

I say to my woman, "Jeffers was
a great poet. think of a title
like Be Angry At The Sun. don't you
realize how great that is?

"you like that negative stuff." she
says

"positively," I agree, finishing my
drink and pouring another.
"in one of Jeffers' poems, not the sun poem,
this woman ***** a stallion because her
husband is such a gross spirit. and it's
believable. then the husband goes out
to **** the stallion and the stallion
kills him."

"I never heard of Jeffers," she
says.

"you never heard of Big Sur? Jeffers
made Big Sur famous just like D. H. Lawrence
made Taos famous. when a
great writer writes about where he
lives the mob comes in and takes
over."

"well you write about San Pedro," she
says.

"yeah," I say, "and have you read the
papers lately? they are going to construct
a marina here, one of the largest in the
world, millions and billions of dollars,
there is going to be a huge shopping
center, yachts and condominiums every-
where!"

"and to think," my woman says smiling, "that you've only
lived here for three years!"

"I still think," I say,
changing the subject,
"you ought to read Jeffers."

I take a wrench to each temple
unscrewing bolts used to hold in
the gray and red sediment
pull out a handful, and begin.

Upon the spinning wheel I throw
a formless character yet to be
until I choose which way to go
and become a piece of pottery.

But my mind dances in fragility
so I move my hands deliberately
as to create without any haste
or ruin my clay's graceful shape.

Dissatisfied, I grab a tool and scrape
the useless remains of my broken brain
and throw them back into my skull,
my once sharp mind now completely dull.

As I tossed you in your carboard coffin
Pieces of you I loved too often
Now shelves for dust and feelings softened
By time and intrusion
And lack of exclusion
Of the wickedness in you

I marveled at each fragment laid to rest
Photographs that caught you at your best
The scent I breathed while on your chest
Now I see your smile is lopsided
And the cologne you once prided
Yourself upon now reeks of decay

An imitation engagement ring
A crass, tinfoil, pitiable thing
Your last bid to try and cling
To a disenchanted free ride
Exhibit A to say you tried
To be half of what I deserved

A love letter in invisible ink
Clear for a moment till the words sink
Like a stricken ship upon the brink
So worn and frail from frequent view
Shoddy proof that you loved me too
A poor Exhibit B

Your faded tee I found comfort in
When doubts crept in of where you'd been
Now the costume of a man of tin
There is no road for you to follow
You have a heart, metal and hollow
For you, there is no place called home

For someone who seemed so central
This tiny box makes you seem incidental
Perspective for the seemingly monumental
You would fit nicely in the attic
A burial I cannot find tragic
I won't even need my black dress

Theres nothing worth embalming to preserve
Two strips of tape and to the curb
A resting place undisturbed
Till the grave robbers haul you away
You're no ones treasure, just trash today
A garbage truck is a proper hearse

We lost our love last Sunday, on laundry day.

It must have been tangled up in the sheets

because I don’t remember the last time that we made love.

This is bigger than that one sock that always goes missing.

We should have hand washed everything.