The Stark Comma

Grifted from the madness of it all.

the seven wonders of a poet’s world

that bar just off main.
that becoming blonde in summer dress off.
that breeze circuit cricket sun dive.
that empty bottle of gallant red.
that conversation with self on honeydew mattress.
that full sheet genius cooked up under three at three.
that humanity sprawl spool where ideas always dye.

and the tourists come with bulbs
dangling to snap a few and ruin
what turns all into ruins

highlands nurture

let the ills get carried away all
the ills carry themselves away.

fear none. pressed gently in a
cabernet cloth mixed in heedy
warmth. highlands of father and
mother warmth. lap white crescents
against algae slip; the favorable
wooshing that washes over like
milked serene you the king you
the queen of all that exists when
eyes close and ills dim.

cherry tomatoes

toothless with teeth- toothy
toothless bum sitting like
gum under some kitschy
60’s lamp listening to some
50’s song grumped out at a
40’s milkman. the

garden in the front only grows
cherry tomatoes, what a
sin. cherry tomato sin in the
morning- what spectacular
folly can we follow up with?
what choices will we make at
high noon- bet there’s a
juicy one once at rise of
the super moon. why do
we trample ourselves in
vicious choices?
a cherry tomato opposite of
what we need: sage or starch.

and in a grand cherry tomato
mirror oh fuck moment, I
followed into coffee house an
old man book in hand left
leg left limp plaid tucked
in with brown penny loafers
and such a lonesome wrinkle


cane the night goes. A
syrup towards the end of its
blown sand; to
know what awakes to:
palpitation pity
thump thump

but, hey, simple the night
goes with lime wedge and
feelers feelin. two flashes of
flavorless soda and a big
neon drudge demoiselles. grainy
at best 19th century sucker
soul stoic

I’m not nearly a man; wobble
towards the big redeem reveal
this being with grace. night
goes like this;

splash of sour mix in the
fearful of all even if
it’s so goddamn brainy


alabama apron drop

cooked some blood toast
in the early hive of east
rise. drank cowboy coffee
in an alamo get-up. sat
sumatra with native
dangle. the mohawk
mosaic of life. spread
out through the mist and
spied freshly cut, freshly
planted, freshly constructed
watermelon seed see
through. where is my
being? has it gypsy’d
to alabama, dropped
split at a pancake apron
drop? I

bear witness. I must be crazed
in some way to believe all
will not die.

and the mudder is conned

there are women, yes

attracted to;
as a high cheekbone demure
playfully teases your brain. there are
women out for dignity lust- with a
toothbrush coupled tumbler dip
within days. don’t be
tempted. these ones
come across as pleasant to
waiters or charismosa with
friends. dark humor
sprinkle sarcastic love
of my fucking life. but alas,
the usual, as smock gets dirty
prepping canvas or
fish or a combination of

during wintry mix of pale
skin and lack of sex, you
begged for pale hand on tan slender
neck just below a fringe
drop earring- sex now
a constant. she’s death. she’s

the paratrooper of death. drop in
off Moroccan winds into fresh
spring. romance!
oh and she

fuck, she reads obscure shit. negotiates
with the record store clerk,
entranced by her beauty, we leave with
half price player. doesn’t
bat an eye when I suggest an
antique store walkabout. when
she sleeps; when she sleeps,
the bulbless room gets a
hue. when

she imitates; when she
imitates, the thought of
racetrack dampens the
mudder but you are
mudder aren’t you?

vietnam non

my father retells this story of his
vietnam tour;

“I was driving patrol with Rutherford, Shults and
Sanford through the dense jungle. From behind I
heard faint gunfire and instantly I felt a bullet
whiz past my ear, felt the wind off it hit my ear.
You were inches away from never being born.”

As a kid, I heard it and usually ate my
peas in peace, or at least pushed the peas
around on plate. Now, though, now I holler
inside- “With what have you done with those
inches!” Inches away from non-existence. My,
oh my…do I even fucking care? Yes.

the shade of the trees at night on a bike

I piss in the sink, more
of a staggered piss as
a pint of whiskey burns
deeply- think,
what separates me


the pint is never enough;
take a ten speed with a
rusted chain and faulty brakes out
of the empty garage. night cruise
for more. just a tallie I believe.
the wind is picking up as the
dead stars get covered slowly
by cloud dust and I cruise with
black tasseled loafers pedaling
towards freedom. pass suburbia
with a clip of hair fluttering.
take a right onto the main drag,
only a block more, the lights of the
twenty four gas station joining the
streetlight earth. up ramp and set
it down on brick. inside, pass a mexican man,
arms full of modelo especial, three or
four, couldn’t see behind the chips, I nod. our
existence clamoring for attention-
who are you and where did you come from?


pay the sleep deprived costumed
counteress and out. the wind now not
cold nor hot but in between, letting
me know that it has no need for brakes.
I shoot down sidewalk now as headlights
pursue from opposite. I wobble, almost
clipping the edge where blades sink inches
on the side. laugh at how surly my loafers
have become and how envious I am for skidded
grass stain closeness. but I make it and
turn left on julie, past the garages
of before, the cluttered agony of before till
I hit blacktop new and empty. set down gears, quiet now and head in with brown paper bag. slink inside to aluminum tab foam and think about


vidalia goddess lust of the ingrate

the vidalia goddess of generosity and warmth spotted

me. she spotted me
and told me that maze of which I have been unconditional is inverted

everest. she spoke in eighteen languages at once; the
whole nile graciously eloping lotus of
delta bliss.
I want to be there, I say but I am ragged. I am the

basin you see. She offered again


I spit in her shining newborn
face and laughed and lapped up
the contents of a shiny can with ribbons curling down


nectarine pit

in pure truth sorta bend, I
write in the vague interests of being pure in

thought and verse. I binge bang
on an Olivetti; all the mechanisms swing and tap in glorious jazz.

got all these jump rope vowels
swimming laps in my head and with hands I dictate as a sorta

professor, no, as a sorta mad conductor of my own merit.

then I get lost in the desk’s wood finish those
darkened swirl maple sun devils and
a new thought encroaches, seminal knife in
hand- so I took notice, first outta fear but
came on down
spoke clearer than any bora bora
palm dive… and it said,

“nectarine pit.”


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