She pulls away when
I kiss
her.
And she treats me
like a stray dog.
I fell asleep, and
she retired to the
box springs alone.
I **** at good byes.
It's only a couple of days,
I know.
It still *****.
She's going to Missouri
to get some things from
her Moms'.
She's a ******* nut.
A break will
do us good,
but I'll still
miss her.

Dean and I camped out behind
the shelter in Des Moines.
There was a nice patch of
woods north of the river.
We canned every day to
knock off the shakes.
Summer turned into
Fall and life raked
us in.
Dean moved in with
a friend, and I
went to this woman's
apartment.

We eventually got
married; it didn't last long.
That's been years ago.
I lost track of Dean for
a long time.
By chance,
we stumbled upon each other via the
internet.

******* life!
He has stage 3 colon cancer.
Reality can be
rancid sometimes.
he's still camping, ,
and he has a
woman that loves him.
What more could
you want?

When I was a
kid,
my Mom would pretend
to be dead.
She'd lie in bed, and
when I arrived home from
school,
I'd go to wake
her.
"Mom...Mom
get up.
I need a ride...
Mom...Wake up...Wake up!"
She'd smile, then
laugh and
open her eyes, and say,
"What if I were dead?
What would you do?"
I said,
"I don't know, you're not!
Quit acting crazy.
I need a ride to Cindy's house."
She'd get up and
light a cigarette, and put
on her quilted rose
colored coat.

We'd pile into the
boat,
the '74 Chevy Impala,
and we'd blast off
into the pink horizon.

One winter night in
'87
I stood above
her as she lay on
the hospital gurney.
She didn't wake up.

I keep searching
for the line.
A line that
straightens my
posture,
unsnarls my
eyebrows, and gives
the bathroom mirror
a better
reflection.

I keep searching
for a line that
stops the midgets
from crying,
that heals the
lame dog's leg,
and slow the
ticking clock.

I keep searching for the line,
one that gets
me laid by
the librarian;
that takes the
eagle from the city;
that gives the
****** hope, and
the hobos a home.  

I keep searching for the line...

November smells like an
empty house,
like decaying dreams;
all pumpkin orange and
burnt sienna.
I search for you through
the ashes of roses.
My eyes are the color
of despair.
I can still taste you;
that last kiss, clover sweet.
And without you, the days
dawn gray
and lonely, like an orphan.

I'm on a Bukowskiesque roll;
pounding them out,
seven or eight a night.
I know it won't last.
It's like a fast.
It's the hunger that
drives you.
And when you're starving,
you eat--then rest,
not today though, I've hit
my stride.
And the night is mine for
the taking.
And the words are mine for
the ******.
And my heart I am staking
on the fact
that
I will stay hungry.

You were a woman of soft grey
skirts and glasses; a little boy in tow at
the place that we met.
As the years pounded by, you became
my pasture of Heaven and my honeysuckle friend.
Your waterfall love washed over me.
It cleansed me like a violet stream,
dappled by the leaves on
the cottonwood trees.

Once I dreamed that we flew together on
the back of a bluebird and laughed until
our jaws ached, and we ate honeydew until the
juice ran down our face and dripped onto
the bird's wings.

But we always wake from dreams,
and birds fly away and build nests;
yet, I know that the light which shines
through you; that exudes from your soul
will always be my heat and my feather.

I dreamed I was
in an
old
dilapidated house.
It was like a cave with
red brick walls.
The paint was
peeling.
It smelled
like loneliness and
Ovulation.
I was with
a woman (maybe an ex.)
And
she cried (big turtle tears.)
And said,
"Don't hate me."  (She was leaving.)
I was drinking;
not drunk,
but liquid smooth.
For some reason, I was
going to
Chicago, to live on
the streets (it was my destiny, my plight.)
And I thought, **** that,
I don't want
to go to
Chicago (all that concrete and crime.)
So I sat there
and
watched the red
paint peel,
and
although the cave
was warm and moist,
it was unfit to
live in.
I said to myself,
I'll go to
the woods,
and live, write
**** small mammals
and eat them (thanks Thoreau.)
I ascended the
stairs to tell
the woman about
my epiphany.
(Beethoven's Ode to Joy was playing in my head.)
She was mock
sleeping, waiting.
I said,
"I'm going to the woods to live and write."
She pulled the
covers off,
exposing all that
impossible
magic,
and said,
"Make love to me
one
last time."
I was glad for
that
and
sad that she
was leaving,
ambivalent,
but
mostly
I was glad.

****!
I woke up.
No woods.
No ***.
Sometimes,
the pain is
so raw
it's like
food poisoning
or
like a little grey
squirrel biting at
my intestines.

I've said it before,
I'll say it again.
Writing is *******
It's like coming.
When I haven't written anything for
awhile, it's like going
without *****.
I need it, I have to have it.
And when I'm writing a
poem, it's like ***.
Depending on the
piece, sometimes it's hard
and rough--*******
in sweat drenched bliss;
toes curling at the
point of ******.

With other poems
it's softer, easier.
It's her on top;
deep long kisses
caressing each other's cheeks,
looking into her eyes;
her long hair dancing on
my face to a slow  waltz.
Or something by Bach or Beethoven;
candles lit, incense burning

But more often than not,
it's me on top
pounding it in;
scratch marks on my back,
guttural moans, then
finally
******!
Sit back, smoke the
lonely cigarette
and wait for
the next ******* session.

You aren't the
light
at the end of
the tunnel,
you're a pit that
you dug,
and I fell into.

You aren't the
prize in the
******* jack box,
you're the
popcorn and peanuts that
I choke on.

You aren't the
lovely path that
winds through
the autumn maples
and elms.
You're the muddy
road to hell.

You sure aren't
the bluebird in my
heart,
you're the albatross that
plagues my dreams.

And in case you
think I was fooled,
you aren't the
person you said
you were.