The breath lands on your shoulder.

Queer-wheeled and all

The world hasn’t stretched into a teardrop

Yet  there’s some leftover solace in a brown paper bag


In the break room fridge so help yourself.

Its lower-left quadrant mottled by grease

Or some other non-GMO effluvia

Of the 40 hour week but no tears.


This motif was built on blood and sunshine,

Indigenous plants and a divine work ethic

Predicated on fratricide.

Bees come and go in the garden


Pollinating like fools.

We hew closely to prescriptions

Baiting the bears with earrings made

of honeycombs.

Upper Great Plains Mise En Scène



Once in one

Of the Dakotas

Sipping brandy

& listening to kiwi pop


Light broke through

A fractured pane

And scattered on the floor

Like marbles


You arrive

At such moments

Trailing behind

Your trained lemur


Francisco is a gentle, old soul

A poet in another life

Or maybe a day laborer

He tugs at the chin strap


Of his tiny red fez

And we laugh

And laugh

Like in the days


When we loved

Each other more than ourselves

Or a lemur dressed like a bellhop

In a late 80’s indie film


But we always ignored the furtive cues

And that’s why across the miles

Here in Wyoming starting tomorrow

Or the day after that


I’m drying out

To wither away

Like fallen leaves

From a fallen oak

Medication Time


First the dead spot

In the vision

And the thought

Will it ever go away?


And if not

Could you focus

On a vacuum

All of the days


Without losing your mind?

But then it floats

Like jagged little jolts

Of electricity


And you want to lie down

To let rest wrap you

In the cool sheets

Of a presaged death


There’s flooding in Louisiana

Discontent in a board room

A man collecting his possessions

From under an overpass


And upon waking

There’s a wedge

Driven into the back of your head

But the log won’t split


Not yet at least

So they keep hammering

Yes they do

Until the jagged little jolts are gone


The waters recede

5:01 arrives

And a man buries himself in rags

While you wait

In Translation/


There’s nothing better

In this world of disarming contrasts

Than to bide your sweet time

On the salty days


Of a waning summer

In the sultry southeast

With a collection of short stories

By an esteemed South American writer


But if I had my druthers

Which are boxed down the basement

Next to jars of dried gumption

With my riding crop, pith helmet and jodhpurs


(It’s a long story, most of them are)

I’d put my lips to your page

And trace the horizon of your voice

As I cross the equator

The Average Lifespan of a Paroxysm


I made sure to compare

Apples to apples, oranges to oranges

Before burning down the packing house.

The flames danced like heathens


In the throes of godless confidences.

Eric said “When you hear music, after it’s over,

It’s gone, in the air, you can never capture it again”

So I kept a rhythm to the rain


By beating on an old coffee tin.

When then the Sirens cut in I thanked

My lucky stars for two left feet

And hugged the walls


Like an acrophobic sniper.

Somewhere out there

Someone with two right feet

Was dancing the night away.

Much To Our Collective Chagrin the Can of Whoop-Ass Had Developed a Slow Leak Overnight

Investment Dr BW 02

Ease off the fun pedal, Charlie

The dawn and its Christ will rise again

So pour me a bloodshot

To chase your grandmother’s eggs benedict


Neither breakfast nor this road

Will go on forever so

Let’s not get there on an empty belly.

Shake some beads on that worry machine of yours


And fix the Say Hey Kid to your spokes.

Let the wind curse what’s left of the lion’s mane.

New, old, middle aged, mox nix,

I pulled the thorn from his paw just the same.


The violins are crumbling like cheap suits

Or salt water taffeta communion dresses.

Innies or outies are just two aspects of the void.

In space, no one can hear you dream.