tobacco hornworm

line my cigarette butts on the wooden railing like
caterpillars; after ten years all whilst a tobacco
hornworm in a
beryl jar, no
butterfly.

dishes

all of us patrons, it’s one big
table anyway. all of us
patrons browsing a menu
of what we’re used to. no
specials exist.
and when the
check comes, you pat
pockets for what you know
isn’t there. and when the
check comes, some skip out on
the bill        some end up washing

dishes

vela

I want to age with you.            
      in middle of fifth    felt
absurd siamese again.felt something
coursing in arterial split. I can
imagine you, wearing that floral
dress in formal dining your neck
doing that slight twist as you
coyly smirk in a room of hushed
silverware. my five welcome, wrong word,
surrender to all of you. nape draped in some
orange blossom coffee accord your
lips blushing amongst notes dizzied
up and warm.  leaves ensconced in
truffle;  we don’t know which
fork to use and this will be a memory we
share six and a half years from
now. I cannot stand to look away from
your bobbed brunette with strand grazing
cheek or your filaments those tranquil
ovals; it is eight-burst.then

I notice I’m not there, or, really
none of this is.  spirits, please do not abbreviate this thought whoever she was, I
want her
back.

hack

(tree bent hell bent)
six foot tall tree growing roots and
kicking round in season old leaves.
shave that pity beard and you be
gable stached smashed on a
dew in some fake kitchen in some
fake house that has your number.

oh, I see. what’s got ya lookin at
your youth dynamo? is it cause you
now leave strands stranded on shower
drain or cause you don’t punch no
more?

you’re no writer old boy you’re no
connoisseur of spaghetti westerns and
jazz or coffee stained notebooks stacked
in LA. this house has your number.

old boy still thinks he can hold a gaze with
dames. oldie now thinks loose leaf only
fits in
packed parchment. give it up old boy or,
shit, have ya?

get back at it hack.

fifty large

got stoned and decided to
stroll main st. as I get older
everything gets boring.

live in this town where a train is
always sparking through- metra or
these long fuckers freighting some
graffiti out west. metra
blows its horn and startles this
old man reading the
trib   a

lady in orange boots and a
dark blue trench tied
tightly just
below breasts steps
down
to platform.
      pretend

I don’t
notice her or the boots   pretend she
was paid fifty large
to
kill me.

I’m not fond of this publishing house

the shaking hue goes warm in
cool eves. the man is deaf.    plunked

drunken in a type a heaving
normandy, for dramatic effect but
all still the same.

when asked what deaf adulthood does
for work, you stay silent cause
the banality makes ya
forget how to tell truths.(it’ll make
                                            you whole)

and in three months, two decades back, you’ll
begin to lose your hearing as your father
builds a snow fort next to the mailbox.

stall

get the notion to write, usually
after months of other affairs or
just being melted into the concrete jungle’s hazard lights. but I do
get this notion, that desirous to
write, usually with the right
mixture of whisky and.      weed.

but when it comes right down to
it, when this notion begins to
gestate, I end up sprawled on
my twin bed staring at a
ceiling fan, trying desirously to
catch a single stalled
blade.

thirty ONE none

she was 25,
chicagoland
labor room
my mother
redheaded
freckled- cursed in contractions:

was pushed out
  a corded orwellian
and I’m begging
the gods for more time.      split in

half, the logger dripped
in lager for his thirty first.       just one.

hard to love gone bitter as
I circle the sun; mother gives
wishes and in fashion, quip a

thanks. she held me once, fresh and
sprinkled.wonder what she truly
thinks of me. I’m sorry, I used to
be
somethin.

a sweet poem rarity

awaken to hear footsteps, gather
my shirt, my pants. rub my eyes as
I make my way through hallway, living
room kitchen. she’s there, the bluebird of
dawn brewing coffee dressed in an
endearing warm glow doesn’t
know I’m near, right arm glides around
waist, left arm atop breasts      nose
to locks    as she kisses my hand with
audible content

think, I could do this for another fifty.

since swaddled

take your rings off, your earrings off take
all that jewelry off.     slough off all that
binds those diamond mines; it doesn’t
belong.

     now, head out to a patch of pines, or,
elms- the ones man left in their curation of
metal and rush hour woe.   inhale deeply.

   nothing more than a celestial cue to let
  

   you in one big secret. as coyotes like ants
  follow their suburban tract of land
.             secret is,  that  you’ll be okay.   and

you
are
loved.