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?

The night is torn apart;
fractured and shattered by
the memory of you.
Stars shake and die,
and I'm filled with
diesel loneliness,
soul sick, like a
butterfly melting.
Everywhere I go,
I smell pumpkin pie, lilacs,
and ****** energy.
The day will come when
I'll not think of you;
not write a single line about
you--not feel you in the
attic of my mind;
but until then,
The crows peck at my
heart, spring never comes;
ice forms on my brain,
and life inches along like
a filthy worm.

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

When the sadness strikes like
a match to my soul
and living is drudgery
and my pulse slows to 49
because the thought of
life beyond the pink
horizon calms me tremendously.
I think of our laughter together;
our churning, choking laughter,
and I smile through my pain for
a second or two;
then I gaze through the
venetian blinds at the gray
sky and the sycamore trees and
the daffodils in the distance,
and none of them are
laughing, for they know that
laughter always dies.
The heart try's to hold on,
but loses every time.

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.

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.

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.

Music isn't the same anymore.
The purity and grit are gone.
It's mechanical and cold.
I remember the days of
records and record players.
The crack and pop, the
sizzling booming bass that
rumbled in my soul.

I think of a song, let's say
something by Zeppelin.
I close my eyes and smell
the ****, see the
blacklight poster on
the brick basement walls.
I lift up the needle and
ramble on.

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 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.

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.

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 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...

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.