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.

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.

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.

waynes expert tailoring needs a new sign

haven’t slept in a long time. I mean really slept.

anxiety throbbing all the way down
my joints, nippin at my heels, needed
a night drive. went yuppy, north of
chicago to a tea joint but before that
bought a bottle of wine at a super
                      market where I stole
some grapes and looked at married
women in the frozen section. tea joint
doesn’t have a wine opener; dismay but

free vegan pumpkin bread from the lonely
employee who is attractive and may be

attracted. tell her my car got fucked by
a two by four that shot at me on
the freeway this morning; don’t

think she cared much. I want to get
drunk but.   instead I get a fair trade pour
over: awaken  for what.  take

a break from my notebook filled with
nothing to have a smoke, probably my
millionth and notice that waynes expert tailoring needs a
    new sign; it’s flickering- symbiotic. my

gas tank is empty, shop is closing and just want my wine

drive back with gas light blinking whilst
passing numerous stations then think about
a niece that I’ll be cradling soon- oh need to change my
ways: porsche

zips by with models laughing and kissing put on
a local jazz station- miles davis get stopped
by a train
lit million and one, looked over at what’s left of
my passenger side mirror as it hangs there wondering
If I got enough gas to make it home

point of this all, this night, is that
I don’t feel quite right.

gobi romantic

swoon over motionless
ladies half undressed in
department store windows.
    everyone’s a couple; this is
  gobi romantic. and I
divorced myself from it cause
I’m statue jotting on brown
        napkins: to retard and

starve.

opus

I grow silver roots in
my italian coiffe- the
sunlight only accentuates my
retirement.          be not me to
tell one mental
break
    down from
another.

Good grief. Where’s my fucking
watch?

I don’t want to return to
where I grew up but I keep
coming back, like a
playwright to his
shitty
    opus.

and the universe pines, no, spins for
me. I

am opus.