We called him Kansas because he reminded us of open spaces,
but we should have called him nothing at all.
He had a last name but we didn’t bother to learn it,
something all-American, midwestern and bland.
He had no hometown but a drifter’s restlessness in his limbs.


Kansas had a girl called Daisy-May, which wasn’t her given name.
It was said that she could charm the rattle out of the snake,
and we never knew if that was a a good or a bad thing.
Daisy-May reminded us of the Forth of July, all sparklers and rocket pops,
Cut-off shorts and bottles of whiskey.  She crackled like a firework display.


Our town overflowed with them, we were too small, too pure,
and they were too combustable. Daisy-May was as mean as they come,
and Kansas was ugly in the same way that Saturday nights are.
Knowing him was like being drunk past midnight, alone and walking
home past ***** neon and watching the stars pass you by.  


Every teenager in the county awoke at the moment of impact,
the night Kansas drove his car through that barn on route 20.  
We flocked like pilgrims to touch the twisted metal of the guardrail.
We followed the dead grass tire marks like the yellow brick road.
Daisy-May was lovely as ever laid out in white like the ****** herself.

On nights when it’s so dry that our skin turns to dust and blows
away, we think of Kansas and Daisy-May and how they caught fire.
Patron saints of our frustration, desperation, too ugly to be real.
Bottle rockets on the Forth of July. Shot from some lonely road
to explode lights in the sky, to blot out the stars for a moment, then die.

land of lincoln vanity plates,
dull midwestern states,
everything is dead in this place
by the first glimpse of september.
maybe someday autumn won’t feel
like the year’s downfall,
but I guess it isn't called
fall by mere chance.
the wind gives me a cold
shoulder, just one more
reminder, of how much
I cannot stand this place.
maybe next fall, i’ll be just a
memory in the midwest states.

I had a dream the other night
That I had found a window
And that window revealed to me the entire world
I could see everything there is to see
I could see the sun set in one land
As it rose in another
Nothing could hide from the windows gaze

I could see kids in public parks
Late at night
Staring at the dark, foreboding trees
Hallucinating the majesty
Of the way the branches moved in the wind
And upon reflection
Were called into the forest
By the sinister shadows inside themselves

On the West Coast I saw a girl
Separated from her Midwestern friends
And her Midwestern love
(Whom I have not met)
I see as her mind is split
Cross country style
And her thoughts fall
Like the raindrops on her window

I see a single match being lit
In the basement of an East Coast hospital
A young boy has traveled many miles
(Hitchhiked across the country
In a time where the Cassadys and Kerouacs
The great heroes of the road
Have all died out
And the road is home to the carcasses of a million dear
A thousand raccoons and a hundred skunks)
The boy lights a second match
And with the match lights a candle
Then he pulls out an old dusty guitar
And begins to play

The boy,
Born too late,
Journeyed to this hospital
The hospital here his hero stayed
While his hero’s mind decayed
But now there is no one around
The hospital is long empty
So he plays a tune to himself
The guitars’ celestial strings sing
Echo through the Empty
But with the window I see the boy is not alone
The spirit of the boy’s hero
Smiles down upon the boy from Heaven
And with God & Saints
Bless the boy
The song
The guitar

Miles away
Out west on a lonesome prairie
In the cover of night
I see a man sit at the bar of a diner
The warm glow does not penetrate far into the solid darkness
The man is alone
A fry cook stands in the kitchen
But is not in the man’s view
The hostess is out back
Smoking in silence
The man is left with his thoughts
Along with his rancher’s jacket
And ***** ball cap
This man wears an air of sadness
I can’t hear what he is thinking
But in his silence I can feel the weight of that sadness
I can almost know all his troubles
The man finishes his coffee
Puts money on the counter
And leaves without saying a word

As the dream ends
And I can feel myself begin to wake
I can see all those faces staring back at me
Each look through their own windows
I see the man stare through his car window
And the window of hope
I see the West Coast girl
Stare out the window of a plane
And the window of longing
I see the boy stare through the window of time
And finally I see the children in the parks
Staring through the window of Nature
And the window of the soul

Merle and June needed a break
From their Midwestern town.
Inundated with sales and receipts,
Both were starting to drown.
 
After years without a vacation,
June found an ideal
Vacation spot at a mountain resort,
And the price was a steal.
 
Ah, finally, to be one with nature!
To sit on their behinds!
To escape the intolerable prairie heat!
To put work out of their minds!
 
During their drive, Merle said, "Dear,
This trip should calm your nerves."
He couldn't see the fear in June's face
As he sped 'round the mountain curves.
 
Once they were settled in their cabin,
June's calm turned out to be brief.
Staring out the window she shrieked
"What?" in disbelief.
 
"Merle," she said, "On the path out there…
I tell you, I could have sworn
I saw a man and woman walk by
As naked as the day they were born!"
 
Grabbing her glasses to read the brochure,
June had to squint
To see that it stated "nudist camp"
In very, very small print.
 
More **** couples sauntered by
With body parts a-dangling.
"Bite the bullet," she said to poor
Merle whose nerves were jangling.
 
"Lock up all of our clothes in our safe
So no one can purloin 'em.
It states right here: No Refund, so
If you CAN'T beat 'em, join 'em."
 
So au naturel Merle and June
Enjoyed the fresh mountain air.
Then Merle got a mosquito bite
On his…well…you know…down there.
 
They started to feel a bit more relaxed
After sitting and sipping
On a few cold drinks. Suddenly, they realized:
They'd never gone skinny dipping.
 
Merle learned in the cool mountain lake
That he was a quick reactor:
Walking back to the shore he complained,
"Blasted shrinkage factor!"
 
Walking around unclad was fine--
With that they had no disputes.
But dining felt a little bit strange
In their birthday suits.
 
Swimming, golfing, hiking, riding,
And sunbathing were all fun,
But they burned parts of their bodies that
Had never seen the sun.
 
Burning his *** wasn't part of the plan,
Merle had to admit.
For three whole days it curtailed activities
Because he couldn't sit.
 
After two weeks of mosquito bites
And sunburned rumps they set
Off on their journey home from a trip
The two would never forget.
 
So, what lessons did they learn?
Being a nature lover
Is fine and dandy, but next time they'll do it
With some sort of cover.
 
And to feel the wind blow on them
Could put their mind at ease;
But they also learned that parts of the body
Don’t need to feel a breeze.

- by Bob B

A ***** hybrid clouded his voice;
a southern drawl
and Midwestern daydream.
Mutt to himself, a fire to others,
a redundant reverie about a home
-- any home --
with pictures of bloodletting,
forgetting mothers, Adidas clad feet
belonging to hooded killers.

His hands sway in church
but his soul doesn't.
No belief in either concept:
God or soul.
Annoyed with the Christian claim
that one needs the other.
He speaks a voice that echoes,
then evolves into a rarity
too tame to flounder and fight,
too wild to sit and stare.

I made a
Mind bending (time altering) attempt at telepathy.
I tried reaching out so that you think of me-
your New Yorker with a midwestern heart.
On my sleeve, an open wound for everyone to see.

Did my subconscious at least interrupt your sleep?

Midwestern girl
with the slow slang
come a little closer
watch her do thangs
she'll usually have
two first names
fried chicken is probably her favorite;
that child loves a ****,
don't forget a big old l o o o o n g danga lang
**** those country girls sho' a make ya head swang!!

your face is imprinted on the underside of my skull,
but I doubt I left as much as a mark across your skin.
I tried to gain your appreciation but you were sarcastic
and hardened by enough years of abuse.
I have been abused, let’s share our lack of emotions.
Let’s laugh with the crinkle of our eyes
and show courtesy with the bend of our hats,
creating a secret language that we’ll share across the room
when you pretend you know who I am.
This heart I give to you is forever promised
and held upon my lips to be by your side
until you die.
After that, the heart will be promised to another.
And whether you make it to thirty or not,
I will be younger, wiser,
and better than anyone you’ve ever met
because I’ve studied your limbs,
the way your eyes twinkle when you’re hurting,
the way you smoke your cigarettes.
I know your stupid Midwestern accent.
I know how you like to do your hair,
whether it’s short and straight,
or slightly longer and curled so tightly.
And I have practiced basketball so I can play
just like your favorite player.
And I can skate circles around you,
especially with that smoker’s cough -
Lucky Strike, unfiltered, a pack a day for 3 months.

The threads of nostalgia bind me to this patchwork blanket
of soy farms and swamp land horizons.
This region has birthed me from her soil,
and in Midwestern arms I am sheltered.

Colorado,Colorado,
I wish I was in Colorado.
Where  puffers stand in line
to have a good-old-time.

I wish you were in Colorado
and puff away your blues,
and have a restful snooze.

Where people laugh
out loud and make their puffers' cloud.

And people stop and stare
into thought provoking air,
and talk about the deeper things
in life.

Sensuous summer fills
my mind
between my munchies
all the time.
My tastebuds shout in glee
with popcorn near my reach
and soda made of peach.

Colorado, Colorado,
I hear you callin' me
forget about that tree
of good and evil be.
And smoke away-at times-
those nasty nursery rhymes
cramped between
folders made of black.

Colorado,Colorado,
I wish I was in Colorado
to get a mountain high.
Where puffers' stand in line
to have a good-old-time...

Since not allowed to light
we're allowed to write:
"Let the **** reign forever"

She's got heavy rain boots stomping
Silk pagado parasol soaking up the shadows
Leaving all her hard angles edged in mist
Behind her black sunglasses you see no sorrow in her eyes
As her pouting lips wrap around a good bye
She's a walk away with a heart full of metal
Twisted and rusted, she'll ruin you too
Midwestern skies always seem to be teary
A day and a night  suffocating under the bleak drowned and dreary
Tomorrow won't feel a thing like Thursday
Blues filtered underwater dreams of escape
Trapped in here
Trapped in here with every dark desire
Eating through her iron heart
Steel ribcage cannot protect from corrosion
Wasting precious time searching for an end
When all she had to do was start to begin

She flashed her carmine smile at me,
lips spread like two blooming crimson petals,
beauty mark perched in a temptingly kissable spot,
just above her immaculate lip line.  
Her fang tooth flirtatiously turned inward
& made her look as if
always brewing intent to initiate adventure,
certain to be pleasurable but prohibited,
& most surely to provide
ample opportunities to escape trouble
after having taunted it.
This minor imperfection served as a reminder that
her beauty was still human,
or else I'd have believed that
she was the product of a profoundly, elaborate hallucination;
that I had not yet woken from an impeccable dream.
She roused me up from my stupor & seduced me into sojourns
through the city blocks that lined our teeming, little hometown.
We stood out as dreamers
in a land full of people with their heads down
like drones, working for their hive.
She kept me feeling alive,
& questioning the complacency of my surroundings
in a muted, Midwestern mecca
where you are taught to accept what you are told
& swallow down bland traditions & institutions
like cold oatmeal.
She made me wish I was a boy
so I could seize her by the perfect slopes of her
statuesque cheekbones & paint my timid, **** lips
with her carmine smile;
but to play in her paint would be to stain harsh red
across the flawless landscape
of our very intimate understanding
of one another.

& so I long for Carmine.

A Jewish boy walked me home last night.
He held my hand as I gushed about You.
The soggy cool of Midwestern winter
Filled our lungs and padded our steps.

I imagined I was in your snow globe:
You strategically shook the tiny plastic flakes
And smiled, seeing them swirl
Around us as we whispered.

I hope that he thought about You,
On his walk alone across the fields
After we had said goodnight.
That his globe water was a little less frozen,

Perspiring in your colossal palms
As you patiently wait to shake
His world awake with grace,
As You so love to do.

i dreamed a rattlesnake was loose in the closet i heard it rattling i was afraid to open the door



a man suffering a toothache goes to see his dentist the dentist administers laughing gas when the man comes to his numb tongue swooshes around his mouth he asks how long was i under the dentist answers hours i needed to pull them all out



he imagines when he grows old there will be a pencil grown into one hand and a paintbrush grown into the other they will look like extra fingers grown out from the palms extensions of his personal evolution little children will be horrified when they see mommy mommy look at that man’s hands!



what if we are each presented with a complete picture of a puzzle from the very start then as our lives proceed the pieces begin showing up out of context sometimes recognizable other times a mystery some people are smarter more intuitive than others and are able to piece together the bigger picture some people never figure it out



i wasn’t thinking i didn’t know to think nobody taught me to think maybe my teachers tried but i didn’t get it i wasn’t thinking i was running reacting doing whatever i needed to survive when you’re trying to survive you move fast by instinct you don’t think you just act



many children are relieved when their parents die then they no longer need to explain prove themselves live up to their parent’s expectations yet all children need parents to approve foster mentor teach love



she was missing especially when her children needed her most she was busy lunching with girlfriends dinner dates beauty shop manicure masseuse appointments shopping seamstress fittings constant telephone gossiping criticizing she was too busy to notice she was missing more than anything she wanted to party show off her beauty to be the adored one the hostess with the mostest



i dreamed i was condemned to die by guillotine the executioner wore black and wielded an axe just in case the device failed in the dream the guillotine sliced shallow then the executioner went to work but he kept chopping unsuccessfully severing my head this went on for a long time



1954 Max Schwartzpilgrim sits at table in coffee shop on 5th floor of Maller’s Building elevated train loudly passes as he glances out window it is typical gloomy gray Chicago day he worries how he will find the money to pay off all his mounting debts he is over his head in debit thinks about taking out a hefty life insurance policy then cleverly killing himself but he cherishes his lovely wife Jenny his young children and social life sitting across table Ernie Cohen cracks crass joke Max laughs politely yet is in no mood to encourage his fingers work nervously mutely drumming on Formica table then stubbing out cigarette in glass ashtray lighting another with gold Dunhill lighter bitter tastes of coffee and cigarettes turns his stomach sour he raises his hand calling over Millie the waitress he flirtatiously smiles orders bowl of matzo ball soup with extra matzo ball Ernie says you can’t have enough big ***** for this world Max thinks about his son Odysseus



when Odysseus is very young Dad occasionally brings him to Schwartzpilgrim’s Jewelers Store on Saturday mornings Dad shows off his firstborn son like a prize possession lifting Odysseus in the air Dad takes him to golf range golf is not an interest for Odysseus Dad pushes him to learn proper swing Odysseus fumbles golf club and ***** he loves going anyway because he appreciates spending time with Dad once Dad and Odysseus take shower together Dad is so life-size muscular hairy Odysseus is so little Dad reaches touches Odysseus’s ******* feeling lone ******* Dad says we’ll correct that make it right Odysseus does not understand what Dad is talking about at finish Dad turns up cold water and shields Odysseus with his body he watches Dad dressing in mornings Dad is persnickety to last details of French cuff links silk handkerchief in breast pocket even Dad’s fingernails toenails are manicured buffed shiny clear



Odysseus’s left ******* does not descend into his ******* the adults in extended family routinely want to inspect the abnormality Mom shows them sometimes Dad grows agitated and leaves room it is embarrassing for Odysseus Daddy Lou’s brother Uncle Maury wants to check it out too often like he thinks he is a doctor Uncle Maury is an optometrist the pediatrician theorizes the tangled ******* is possibly the result of a hormone fertility drug Mom took to get pregnant the doctor injects Odysseus with a hormone shot then prescribes several medications to induce the ****** to drop nothing works eventually an inguinal hernia is diagnosed around the age of 9 Odysseus is operated on for a hernia and the ******* surgically moved down into his ******* the doctor says ******* is dead warning of propensity to cancer later in life his left ball is smaller than his right but it is more sensitive and needy he does not understand what the doctor means by “dead” Odysseus fears he will be made fun of he is self-conscious in locker room he does not comprehend for the rest of his life he will carry a diminutive *****



spokin alloud by readar in caulkknee axescent ello we’re Biggie an Smally tha 2 testicles whoooh liv in tha ******* of this felloh Odys Biggie is the soyze of a elthy chicken aegg and Smally is the size of a modest Bing cheery



one breast ****** points northeast the other smaller breast ****** points southwest she is frightened to reveal them to any man frightened to be exposed in woman’s locker room she is the most beautiful girl/woman he will ever know



Bayli Moutray is French/Irish 5’8” lean elongated with bowed legs knobby knees runner’s calves slim hips boy’s shoulders sleepy blue eyes light brown hair a barely discernable freckled birthmark on back of neck and small unequal ******* with puffy ******* pointing in different directions Laura an ex-girlfriend of Odysseus’s describes Bayli’s appearance as “a gangly bird screeching to be fed” Laura can be mean Odysseus thinks Bayli is the coolest girl in the world he is genuinely in love with her they have been sleeping together for nearly a year it is March 11 1974 Bayli’s birthday she turns 22 today Bayli is away with her family in Southeast Asia Odysseus understands what a great opportunity this is for her to learn about another culture he knows Bayli plans to meet up again with him in late summer or autumn in Chicago Dad wants Odysseus to follow in his footsteps and become a successful jewelry salesman he offers Odysseus a well-paying job driving leased Camaro across the Midwest servicing Dad’s established costume jewelry accounts Odysseus reasons it is a chance to squirrel away some cash until Bayli returns it is lonely on the road and awkward adjustment to be back in Chicago Odysseus made other plans after graduating from Hartford Art School he is going to be an important painter after numerous months and many Midwestern cities he begins to feel depressed he questions how Bayli can stay away for so long when he needs her so bad the Moutray’s send Mom and Dad a gift of elegant pewter candleholders made in Indonesia Mom accustomed to silver and gold excludes pewter to be put on display she instructs Teresa to place the candleholders away in a cabinet Mom also neglects to write a thank you note which is quite out of character for Mom Bayli’s father is a Navy Captain in the Pacific he is summoned to Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia the Moutray’s flight has a stopover in Chicago Bayli writes her parents want to meet Odysseus and his family Odysseus asks Dad to arrange his traveling itinerary around the Moutray’s visit Dad schedules Odysseus to service the Detroit and Michigan territory against Odysseus’s pleas Odysseus is living with his sister Penelope on Briar Street it is the only address Bayli’s parents know Odysseus has no way to reach them when the Moutray’s arrive at the door Penelope does not know what to tell them Mom and Dad are not interested in meeting Bayli’s parents it is not the first sign of dissatisfaction or disinterest Mom and Dad convey regarding Bayli Odysseus does not understand why his parents do not like her is it because Bayli is not Jewish is that the sole reason Mom and Dad do not approve of her Odysseus believes he needs his parent’s support he knows he is not like them and will likely never adopt their standards yet he values their consent they are his parents and he honors Mom and Dad let’s take a step back for a moment to get a different perspective a more serious matter is Odysseus’s financial dependency on his parents does a commitment to Bayli threaten the sheltered world his parent’s provide him is it merely money binding him to them why else is he so powerless to his parent’s control outwardly he appears a wild child yet inwardly he is somewhat timid is he cowardly is he unsure of Bayli’s strength and sustainability is that why he let’s Bayli go whatever the reason Dad’s and Mom’s pressure and influence are strong enough to sway his judgment he goes along with their authority losing Bayli is the greatest mistake of Odysseus’s life



he dreams Bayli and he are at a Bob Dylan concert they are hidden in the back of the theater in a dark hall they can hear the band playing Dylan’s voice singing and the echoes of the mesmerized audience Odysseus is ******* Bayli’s body against a wall she is quietly moaning his hand is inside her jeans feeling her wetness rubbing fingers between her legs after the show they hang around an empty lot filled with broken bottles loose bricks they run into Dylan all 3 are laughing and dancing down the sidewalk Dylan is incredibly playful and engaging he says he needs to run an errand not wanting to leave his company Odysseus and Bayli follow along they arrive at an old hospital building it is dark and dingy inside there is a large room filled with medical beds and water tanks housing unspeakably disfigured people swarming intravenous tubes attach the patients to oxygen equipment feed bags and monitoring machines Dylan moves between each victim like a compassionate ambassador Odysseus is freaking out the infirmary is too horrible to imagine he shields his eyes wanders away losing Bayli searching running frantically for a way out he wakes shivering and sweating the pillow is wet sheets twisted he gets up from the bed stares out window into the dark night he wonders where he lost Bayli



these winds of change let them come sailor home from sea hunter home from hill he who can create the worst terror is the greatest warrior

Quantify

We will ease into this twisted or rebellious look at what experts say is the top trend
For 2012 this quantifying was first done in ancient abbeys but they did it on the front end you were
Told how long to meditate, pray, copy older manuscripts but now technology is going to do it at the end
And it is called the quantified self a top magazine that writes about these things says there are already
Three big hitters geared and going already their data bases are going to record practically every human
Action then it will give you a read out numerically where you can strategies a perfect day even the writer
Knows how much he wrote last year how much the better writers wrote and with less words they
Received better results on hits or they will tell you how many steps how many calories they have a
Sleep machine that will use Doppler radar and it will tell you when you’re in deep sleep track your sleep
Cycle show when it is best to get up yes it has all positives cut down on wasted expenditure of energy
Come out ahead for the day in less time but it will mean you have to be self driven I never respond well
To the whip I don’t care who’s holding it and if they have sleep machines not far behind will be intimacy
Meters all of a sudden the geeks and nerds will be gods the woman turns on the **** his eyes light up
Like a plane ready to taxi and his bow tie will start to twirl like a propeller but listen to two regular guys
Man I can’t take it I use to beg like a dog now she smiles real big then she takes the only key turns the
Lousy thing on turns the **** to the slowest point you can’t even ride a bike at that speed you just fall
Over you think you have it bad my wife almost twist the **** off I feel like a greyhound at the track but
I’m the only one in the pack that knows the rabbit isn’t real who wants to chase a sock on mechanized
Rod you go twenty five it goes twenty six well you know who is going to have a career resurgence Kirk
Douglass all of this whooped up speed nonsense all he will have to do on screen is ride down the street
Top down doing ten miles an hour hey Kirk you’re my hero the one per centers will scream what’s with
That ole **** the new rebel will be the day dreamer standing idle watching a cloud pass slowly over head
I can just see all the animals going bald from the stress some jack rabbit wanting them to eat faster sleep
Less forget the flees one guy said he tried to shoot himself but the ammo is so out dated and slow he
Kept missing his head Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn will not only be classics but new best sellers and all a
Painter will to paint is a bare foot kid with a straw hat and a fishing pole they will sell like hot cakes to
Frazzled out over achievers we had a New Yorker move into our Midwestern town and take a job at the local
Factory that’s the way it will be he looked like he was on video tape being fast forwarded and we were
On regular speed and when he talked it was like the old LP records when you put it on the wrong speed
He was talking a mile a minute and sounded like Alvin the chipmunk where we were on the slow speed
And we fell in a vat of molasses turtles that talk my final word I miss the good old day

Armpits, legs, arms
pits of arms.
Instrumental music--dancing.
Hopping, shaking your hips, moving your feet.
Stretching, drinking coffee, going to the bathroom.
Taking a walk, taking a drive.
Deodorant!
Bookbag, handbag, no bag.
Watering flowers, looking at flowers, getting naked.
Looking at your nakedness.
Dressing, re-dressing, *******, dressing.
Salad dressing, soup, eggs over easy, black beans.
Singing in the dead of night.
Blues, pastoral folk fleeting, flowing,
meeting again.
Traveling, boating, tripping and falling.
Bird-watching, laughing, joking,
(Midwestern jokes)
Leaving, grieving, waking up.

From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.

Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.

John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.

I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!

So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.

All you are supposed to be is a change of scenery
(i've been here for four years, i've been me for seventeen)
Door opens to backpack skateboard and "I haven't showered in two weeks"
(i haven't slept in three)
Don't ask me what happened this isn't catching up
(how are you)
Show me what, I don't know
(you don't know either)
I laugh when I'm nervous
(what are you thinking)
(are you even a real girl)
(i dont think you are)
I am looking for a future in the back of a crystal ball bald head
(my band and i, we did it as a joke)
Instead give way to eight consecutive marks - neck, left shoulder, chest
(just like Hawaii, a place i have already been to, and you have not)
Come back
(where do you even go to)
You are a pop punk house show in a small town on a 97 degree Fahrenheit day in August in the basement of a friend of a friend whom I haven't seen since
Grade 9
(when i first heard of you)
Let me pretend that I'm drunk so you can pretend you didn't come here for this
(are you sure, i don't even have a ******)
Leave at 9 o clock to make way for my 9:30
(stay another eight hours to **** with my head)
A triple kick-flick on a scorching Midwestern sidewalk
(teach me how and leave)
Prove you weren't as far off as i needed you to be
(it's only an hour if nothing comes up)

i have
many flaws
this i
have always
known i
snap my
gum i
eat too
much my
accent is
far too
heavy for
this midwestern
town and
i stand
too close
to the
street while
waiting for
the light
to change

today i
waited in
the bus
lane and
didn't realize
until the
girl beside
me screamed
as the
bus sped
past inches
from my
face i

guess i
forgot that
not everyone
wants to
cease existing
so badly
they subconsciously
hope for
a bus
to flatten
them on
their commute

Holding you next to me, in the winter months
Feeling you near me as we share our dreams
Knowing what we always wanted is finally here
I can’t think of anything better to do right now
Than to make passionate sweet love to you
Knowing that what we have, will always remain

Your beautiful smile pulls me in, I cannot lie
Your eyes, they lock me in and bring me to my knees
The touch of your hands, I beg for them every day
The sound of your voice, it helps guide the way
I never want this to go away, never leave my side
Together we will see it all, one amazing ride

Kissing your sweet lips under the stars so bright
Holding you by the fire on a Midwestern night
I never want these moments to go, only to grow
Drinking wine from the bottle, feeling the love flow
The little things that make my life so much better
Hearing your laugh and seeing you in my sweater

It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines

It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass

It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement

It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all

But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.

Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.

-W.J. Thompson

Sitting in a bathtub full of red,
I knew I had been disowned
by the waters of my youth.
No more would I wade into
the shallow green waters of the Blue,
tiny rocks and the shells of long-dead
mollusks digging into the soles of my feet.
I drained myself into the water,
imagined my blood swimming in the Brandywine,
swirling in the dark near the bottom of the Delaware,
letting go of itself, finally, as it flowed into
the arms of the end of the world,
as it broke upon the waves of the grey Atlantic.

Once, I caught a fish in the Cumberland,
I regarded its red-eyed terror with some of my own,
and when we threw it back, I wondered if it would live,
enduring in the water, a new scar in the soft flesh of its mouth,
an amulet against future harm, a fear of hooks dangling within reach,
and black shapes silhouetted against the bright noon sun
as it skimmed across the surface of the stream.
I never threw a hook in the water again,
but I found myself, time after time, drowning
in the palm of someone else's hand,
all for want of a river that would keep me
safely ensconced in its dark secret places.
Like the fish, I dreamed of hooks.

Imagine the end of the world.
Downtown in the dark,
the filthy Ohio snaking its way through the shadows
that fall upon the river valley.
The girl stops to smell the scent on the air,
but she doesn't quite understand what it means.
She has smelled it all her life, putrid water,
but she has never stopped to contemplate the source of it.
She never thinks she will have time to get to know the river intimately,
the way it will caress her slackening skin,
all of the days they will spend together,
on her journey to join the great brown Mississippi,
the river taking as much of her as it can get,
keepsakes to remember her by. It loves, as much as it can.
It loves the fields, the fishermen, the boats.
But most of all, it loves the girls no one wanted,
the girls no one could find. It holds them in its waters,
and when the time comes, it gently lets them go.

The city of my childhood glows white in the Midwestern sun.
The river running beside it is ugly, but not,
shimmering with diamonds of light that float upon its brown surface.
This is the river that breaks a continent in half.
It could take your home if it wanted to, your town,
everything you ever loved and anything that ever meant something to you.
It could break you, like the continent, only it would be easier.
You can cross the bridge, but you can't look down.
You know the river is waiting below you, implacable and constant.
For thousands of years, it has eaten the dead,
and killed some of those it wanted before we had decided to let them go.
Its bottom is haunted by boats, its ghostwaters are dammed with the corpses of soldiers
from wars as important to the river as the dragonfly hovering above the surface.
I look upon this river in my dreams, and it knows me.
The reflection it shows me is dark but true.
All of the rivers have known me.
I whisper their names as my skin becomes saturated.
I pray to the rivers of my youth,
but, like god, they never answer.

Isn't it great to live in a land
Where your freedoms stretch
As far as the fields?
This land where my heart belongs
To the earth and sky
Where my breath catches
Just from watching the sunset
With its wind that breathes life
Into my tired lungs
After a long day, to just drive
On this earth, in this country
Where the land takes care of the people
And the people share the fruits of
Their labors with each other
There’s a Midwestern spirit
That I can feel in my soul
It moves my bones and drives me on
Knowing that I live in this beauty
Among this endless sky
And this soulful earth
I take such comfort in it,
Isn't it wonderful to live
In this land?

kid with dog, I know, not what you’re thinking of my midwestern peace ****.  for lightning burn a stick above advancing plastic army.  make zeroed the black kid with red dog.  this I can follow.  my loyalty to shame and to the poorness of my spirit’s ghost.  god drawing himself in god’s raffle.  a woman with cigarette on a zoo outing.  bold I make her in images mine.  I stalk, don’t worry, I tell her myself.  it’ll pass being tired of god.

on a rainy day your body spread over a picnic table
like an egg yolk, and you swallowed the word profound
again and again.
someone from your past
has gone beneath the ocean, leafless
and you can hear the wailing from here to the saginaw
people begin to breathe blood: they’re choking up, soughing
“be easy buddy” and
“he wanted a black eye for prom so i punched him in the face”
flowers arrived at the door, a ghost, an ear of corn
while everything yearned tall: frames, shadows,
in st. louis you circle a bit of claret earth
spotting your sister’s face in the mirror, leaving linseed and shreds
i could never ask how you are.
the wail is a train whistle, i hear it pauses
for no softness of flesh, these midwestern daughters
she loved all living things.
imagine carefully painting a boat
a pencil in your teeth,
cutting through earth, the nantucket sound
you’re going to take your boat beyond
this firmament, you know, we’re all
waiting through this salty crush
sinking below a winter current
this is all yours now:
mainsail, rudder, hard-a-lee
you darling masters of the sea.

for PW and LE. goodnight.

Opie Okies,
pursed lips,
Midwestern turn,
of phrase,
Grubby,
makeshift enterprise,
Whose building,
has ol' ***** wisemen,
sittin' on the porch,
chewing the fat,
of the fish caught,
cheaply from the dock,
Their faces branded,
a top the flickering neon billboard,
A majestic pile of gleaming ****,
A ****** statement,
under breath,
That is America today

you find a man whose wife has recently passed
place him in a wide open space
and give him the supplies necessary
to build a common backyard fence

you inform the man that at points a mile north, south, east, and west
a baby just learning to crawl has been faced in his direction
and he will need to begin building the fence

you understand that the viewership will need to take on faith
that the babies will crawl in a semi-straight line
will not take up with imported wolves
and because you cannot film them
are there at all  

if god exists
the man will have time to smoke a cigarette in peace
before and after the fence is built
and the babies will become a footnote
to the reported sightings of his wife

Grey-Green-Red-Brown Dawn
stains right through a.m. sky
                     so the atmosphere
                     looks weird today.
The forecast calls for heat again;
that silent, seething drum that beats
        the blood-drenched dollar sky--
beats out a March of Ages--

beats us copper lumps to shape.

The shelf we Occupy on this drifting
westward continent, constructed from
the flesh that fell from our fathers' hands,
from the bones of distant lands
becomes a dusty storage closet
        for the corpses of our days

Our days--aha.
That's supply and demand, kid.
What's a life but flesh-time?
And what's time if not money?
Nothing!
Nothing is anything
                   but money.
You. Are money.
Like time.
Sleep well tonight. And set your clock.
You gotta work to buy their robots
that **** Mid-Eastern skies
(and Midwestern ones alike)

Sink real slow beneath the surface
of that rising ocean of noise--
growing louder--hot air melting ice caps.
Watch that boiling, acid ocean
roll in on the tide and sink
beneath the waves of noise--
               of monotone voices--
sawdust seasoning on cardboard--
crying, "These colors don't run!"
and, "Stand your ground!"
and for fun, when bored, answer the
                 Call of Duty.
It's that silent, seething drum

beating 'gainst THE TERRORISTS
while we deny the summer heat
as we sweat in SUPERBOWL SUNDAY dreams,
Like it beat against the COMMUNISTS
through all our TOP GUN weekends,
Like it drums up portraits of
              vampire fanged IMMIGRANTS
                                           and ILLEGALS
while we guzzle our BEER
and sweat beneath those acne-scarred skies
on the FOURTH OF JULY.

Sleep well tonight

And set your clock.

Don't wanna be late for work,
to buy their robots that **** Mid-Eastern skies
          (and Midwestern ones alike).

What's that hum outside your window tonight,
whirring, buzzing
                 droning
beneath the blood-drenched dollar sky?