Mr. Brown dozes silently

with cloudless sky,

along babbling brook

in the tall grass and fern.

Aware of

but unconcerned with

his

and everyone’s

impending doom.

Eventually the rain

will drop

and someday the sky

might fall,

but for today the water smiles

and the mosquitoes stay away

and Mr. Brown

stretches

and wiggles

his hairy toes.

I AM A RICH MAN

I have

a black swiss army knife with 29 functions.

I have arthritis, asthma and

scars.

And I have good intentions.

I have a refrigerator, with eggs

and mustard.

And the warm, lazy smell of bread.

I’ve got the blues,

a collection of bills,

and a mother who loves me.

I have my memories,

and a persistent cough,

shit stains in my underwear,

a zippo lighter, green toothpaste, and beer.

I have antibiotics and aspirin,

fabric softener, strong sexual urgers, and hair

on my toes,

and a mean streak too.

Also

I have gas,

and an evil side,

a few nasty habits, several problems, and a nice smile.

I have a box of old letters and ageing poems,

parking tickets,

and the sun on the lake on a clear morning.

I have some socks, and some holes,

color TV,

and jazz in stereophonic sound,

one gray hair in my left eyebrow,

and

I’ve got my dreams,

a wild imagination,

a paper and a pen,

and some hope

and one good shirt.

So the girl

in the green sleeping bag

is better than the sunrise

that trickles through

the venetian blinds

onto my cold feet

which are expectant

and horrendous

and swelled

with disbelief

sometimes

quite often

I am stupid

and cannot

read the signs

that are put

rather profoundly

At these same feet

But if I could get

A decent nights sleep

and some common sense,

I could rest

in a green

sleeping bag

for the rest

of my days.

BUTTER

She lies prone on the bed

Her hands separating her buttocks

wiggling her lascivious red

asshole at us.

The burning bastard sun

scorches and dries. Until there

is only sand

which sifts and blows

endlessly

with no need

for an hourglass.

Young blazing oranges, fresh

from the refrigerator, driven up

from Mexico that shreds

of pulp

may stick

between our

teeth.

FRIDAYNIGHT

An amazing beauty, admired by all

the uncertains, that stand swaying in the corner

like cobwebs. Leered at by all

insubstatials, that are invisible to the naked eye.

Sneered at by all the lesser beauties, dully

dabbing lipstick and smearing painted face.

Praised by all the moon glimpsers, and

faraway dreamers. All the crowd, even the ones

off ot one side, sneaking a peek at her.

And he, a drunk, the town fool. His bulb

dimly lit, drooling, scratching at his

balls, downs another. Then turns, belching

loudly, announcing his intent.

ONE POEM TOO LATE

and if I had written a poem

about love

it would have been

about you,

and it would have consisted

of your eyes

and your caresses

filled with bright lingerings and

silent, unspoken wishes

hel secret like precious gifts, or miraculous visions

and thousands of cloundless days

laid before us

at the foot of our bed

with your black hair accross

the skin of my shuddering stomach

like sweet dark wine

spilt-

but I write this in teh past tense

on tainted memory

with nothing

except contaminated desire

a hangover

and regrets.

SOCKS

Just a general sense of decay

on a Saturday. The clouds hang

so low that I crouch so my head

may go unharmed.

I walk west on Mercer Blvd.

and my socks refuse to

stay up.

It’s raining and I feel the damp

on my ankles. There’s

a young couple by the theatre,

standing so close.

The moment stops, and

the rains freeze,

they stand

so close.

I pull up my socks

and I know that high above

there are jets.

And they are flying

to Mexico, the Canary Islands

and West Virginia.

BLISS, IDAHO

Driving east on 84

there’s Mountain Home, Glenns Ferry,

Kings Hill then

Bliss.

The sky will be grey

and purple,

and vicious.

There will be a traverers advisory,

and night will come stampeding in.

You’ll stop at the big gas station,

even bigger than the Texaco.

You’ll ask the lady at the register

for a key.

Ask politely

and you may receive a feigned, yet

not indifferent

smile.

It’s not inconceivable,

just common everyday.

And the restroom will shine,

and smell faintly of bleach,

Pine-sol, and piss.

You’ll splash water on your frace and

wrists. The water will be very cold

and you’ll be glad to have it.

Tonight

The girl with the freckles will smile

and I’ll hope

I’ll promise

Dream for an hour

Until she goes home

Then I’ll smoke

Another lazy cigarette.

Besides

the exterior light

that glares

like some distant conscience

there is no illumination

no brightness

only the grey

that comes from an overcast

sky and the last

moments of dusk

this floor

this window

this ceiling

provide little

or no security

and the clock is as uncaring

as the world outside

we sit on the carpet

a bowl of cherries

between us

chewing away the fruity flesh

baring the seeds

then spitting them

into the bottom of

a blue porcelain cup.

When I Switched the Old Typewriter Over to Red

red all over the page

and there was red all over the page

and it kept on running

kept on running

down over the keys

over the keys and onto

his fingers

now he had left his fingerprints

they would find them there

imprinted in red

he would have to run

run and never stop

run, sleep in a different motel every night and

keep the car running outside

cover his tracks

-maybe he could even walk backwards in them

like they do in teh westerns

try to lose the ones chasing him

but it wouldn’t matter

he would have to keep on running

eventually his face would turn red

his breath would come in short gasps

maybe he would even faint, lose consciousness

and tehn they would catch him

they would beat him on the head

kick him in the ears

punch him in the stomach

knock his lights out

jump up and down over his fingerprints

and there would be red all over the ground

and it would keep on running

I am still here

with my cats. Here

with the splintered chairs,

the ashtrays,

the left behind

earrings, and

the stray

memories.

I ask myself,

“Where has everyone gone?”

Off to the far reaches,

or perhaps, there

behind the bookcase?

Later, I forget the question.

It doesn’t seem to matter,

here with my cats.

SENTINEL

Traffic heads either north or south on

Interstate 5 Whichever way you choose. From

where I watch, here at the window, the freeway

is one long river of glimmering movement. The

bitter cold seeps through the seems of teh win-

dow, chilling the tip of my nose, and cheeks. It

is very quiet except for the far off drone of a

small plane or a helicopter. Its hard to distin-

guish from this distance.

The bed is just next to me, an arms length away.

It’s heaped full of blankets and pillows. so

many that they trail off onto the floor, like the

tentacles of some great sea creature.

There is a man in the bed. His breathing is

labored and irregular. His breath is quietly

tainted of mildew. He looks as though his is

entirely covered with a fine layer of dust.

Cautiously he wavers and lingers like cigarette

ashes.

He is sleeping now. Short, fitful sleep, tiny

lapses of the death he will soon meet.

Nightmares and dreams chasing him through this

reality and that. He sayus, “Thank you” once,

very politely, breaking this quiet but not the

dream nor the sleep.

God, let him sleep, and give him great dreams.

Give him dreams of flight and song. Dreams of

distant shores, golden ships, and soft oceans.

Give him teh dreams of emperors who become

prophets who become gods. Give him the kindest

dreams you can conceive.

We talked before, until his strength was spent.

We talked about secrets and things that aren’t

secrets, but are still beyond telling or grasp-

ing. Also we talked just to talk, just to hear

ourselves, just to keep the Angels of silence at

bay.

PROCRASTINATION

At the moment,

I am alone in the apartment,

admittedly ignoring

the scattered beer bottles and cigarette ashes.

The kitchen faucet is putting out

unusually lound drops.

I’ll let it drip.

It seems only fair. If I turn off

the faucet

and leave the beer bottles and cigarette butts-

or for that matter, the dirty dishes, the unswept floor, the laundry,

etc.

just sitting unattended,

then something is bound to take offense.

So I sit, not moving, afraid of insulting

the worthless objects of mhy existence. That leave me

with nothing

to do. Seems as if this is happening more and more

often these days.

I sit

alone convincing myself

that there is nothing to do. When everything in my life needs to be done.

All this

is happening,

or not happening,

after I promised myself, just last night, that

I wouldn’t allow myself to do

this again.

Drive to Concentrate – Concentrate to Drive, I told myself.

But now, I concentrate only

on driving this cigarette to

my lips.

SEARCHING

I’ve checked behind the couch,

looked in teh back of the closet,

searched teh boxes in teh basement,

but you must be misplaced.

I memorized your phone number,

even put it inside my phones memory too.

Now I can’t remember the lines of your face

for the life of me.

maybe if I pushed a button on the phone it would all

come pouring back.

Or maybe if I checked underneath all the ashes

in the ashtray, I could find a hint or glimpse of

what you used to mean to me.

In the book of the freezer, behind the vodka, the orange juice

concentrate, that ice cream I didn’t like, those trout

I caught a couple of summers ago and promised myself I’d eat right away-

in the back, the very back, of the freezer there still might be

a good time that we once had and I wanted to save.

Gone lost

along constant

melanic road

blurred with oil and

rain

gtripping at my

shoelaces

stumbling me down

airport lounges and

rest stop toilets

bring little comfort

but graffiti apostles

and multi-shaded

barrom

disciples

slide me hope

along polished

mahogany+

and dim alleyway

still

all of my thoughts

pertain to your naked

chest

your young flesh

and your calm

indifference.

GRAVESTONE MELODY

Wrap your arms

about me

when the winds come

press your lips

to mine

that we might save

our precious breath

from the elements.

Hold me close

now

don’t let me go

rest here with me

for all the eternities

that shall come

and leave

unnoticed by us

cradled

in our beds

of earth

our sheets of dust

and fine pillows

of time.

DON’T KICK MY DOG

It is warm here and the sun shines.

The music sounds

better.

Seems true.

And in teh morning

I take walks with the dog,

and stretch,

and imagine

the rain running

in the gutters of the city

I left behind.

The dog looks as if he knows,

and his steps

seem lighter.

Like a heavy load has been

lifted

from him.

And all the bad memories

And ghosts

All the regrets and

Weary hatreds

in teh world,

combined

couldn’t lick my dog in an honest

fight,

Right now.

But then

it isn’t an honest fight,

now is it?

The dog and I walk on,

stepping over all the cracks

in the concrete sidewalk.

Looking out for the cats

and the dogcatchers.

Thinking of breakfast

and bones.

CAUTION

Tonight I worry about age,

comfort, possessions, and

from here

I can hear the trains play

and stumble along

the stockyards

like blind,

lethargic children.

Beyond that

I worry about the infinite

cold and gthe infinite darkness

of the night.

Not to mention her,

her black hair,

her solicition beauty.

Outside, those yellow

streetlights whisper

warnings. And tomorrow

we will need more cake

and eggs.