a dream [ver 3]

the tired peasant mother of a mother
calloused hands with grooves and furrows
small stepping feet float her to the field in adagio beat
with the surrounding sounds of natures sweet ring
her arms and aching back carry the acquired anamnesis of
two generations trapped in toiled labor

ostinato hoe turning earth and birthing it again
a ritual a funeral for rotted leaves and packed dirt
surfacing soft soil for the seasonal scatter
blessing burnt black sod with the sheen of the sea

finality fills her tired peasant eyes as the last seeds are sown
she will not collect the coming crop of Cancer
and weather the wintery wind's wicked blows
she gracefully floats to the rhythm of the coda

burial in the fall with the fallen leaves
the fuel for a future funeral of minerals and weeds
a wry smile unwilting across her wrinkled face
laid in the loam of an unknown reap

waking
my fertile head in your lap
soft sounds of sinatra surfing your sighs while
stacatto fingers linger and harrow my scalp
sifting up the syllables that sprout and swell
into impending verses and idolatry

sing o muse [ver 1]

language dripping easy off your tongue
like rain water running off the edges of a leaf
and i stand below
the dumb savage, the panting beast
cracked lips wide awaiting your moisture
on my primal tongue

instictual reactions of dilated pupils
and a rush of blood to blush
i am the apes gathered around the monolith and
i am the virgin with a glass of wine and
i am the cancer patient with a morphine injection
i am penetrated

a dream [ver 2]

the tired peasant mother of a mother
calloused hands with grooves and furrows
small stepping feet float her into the field
her arms and aching back carry the anamnesis of
two generations toiled in labor

hoe turning earth and birthing it again
a ritual a funeral for weeds and mined minerals
surfacing soft soil for the seasonal scatter
and blessing burnt black sod with the sheen of the sea

a feeling of finality fills her tired peasant eyes
as the last of the seeds are sown
unwilling to collect the coming crop of Cancer
and weather the wintery wind's wicked blows
she floats with sure-footed rhythm to the coda

burial in the fall with the fallen leaves
the fuel for a future funeral of minerals and weeds
a wry smile unwilting across her wrinkled face
laid in the loam of an unknown reap

waking
my fertile head in your lap
finessed fingers harrowing my scalp
sifting up the words that swell
into impending verses and idolatry

a dream [ver 1]

the tired peasant mother of a mother
calloused hands with grooves and furrows
small light feet float her into the field
her arms and back carry the memory of
two generations toiled in labor

hoe turning earth and birthing it again
an annual funeral for weeds and mined minerals
surfacing soft soil for the seasonal seeds
and blessing burnt brown sod with the sheen of the sea

feelings of finality fill her tired peasant eyes
as the last of the crops are sown
unwilling to collect the coming crop of Cancer
and weather the wintery blows of the wicked wind
she floats with sure footed rhythm
back to the wooden house that belongs to unfolding mothers

buried that fall with the fallen leaves
and the fuel for a future funeral
a wry smile unwilting across her wrinkled face
laid in the loam of an unknown reap

waking
my pregnant head in your lap
your fingers ploughing my hair
turning up the words to breathe life
into impending verses and idolatry

Raw Material for a piece

He would have had footsteps across the bricks of red square. I wonder what they sounded like. Soft shoes or hard boots. Did the fabric of his pants make sounds as he took purposeful steps towards his destination? Was his smell fresh or repugnant? Was he bald from chemo or from stress? Did he have an ex-wife who found a new husband with full hair or an erect penis? Did he talk with his children? Did his ears react to the wildcat scream of the passing skateboarders or did his eyes focus on the faces of the children walking by? Was his hand steady or clumsy or shakey as he unscrewed the cap from the container? Did the smell of the fumes excite him in the stomach or genitals or legs? Was it warm or cool as it ran over his body and soaked into his jeans? Was this a reminiscent of wetting his pants as a child? What was he afraid of? Did a wind chill him then? How many times did he fail to strike the match? To spark the flint? Were his hands practiced by years of cigarettes or did his virgin fingers pain easily like a day of picking of guitar? How long until he felt the heat in his eyes? Was he ever on a camping trip with his grandfather in the cascades or on the shores of red lake? Was he ever burnt by an oven furnace before? Did he ever receive as much attention as he did now? Was his mind retreated into fantasy or was he alive in the moment with senses blazing? Were his eyes open to a white light or caked shut by boiling flesh? Did he choke on his own smoke line? Was he conscious enough to feel disappointed he didn't die immediately? Was he ever in a spelling bee or first love in middle school? Was it fitting his final words were mumbled incoherently to be repeated later for attention by some cooze who never wore worn out shoes?

Am I right to tell my mother that you cant feel sympathy for everyone? Was it sorrow or irony that brought the rains the next day?

An Observation 2

being back in Minnesota
is being back in who i was 3 months ago
without ever hitting 88 on the freeway home

leaving the house as a shamed pup
i take off my shoes so they stop tearing at my ankles
and walk night sidewalks
that will be buried 3 feet cold in another 3 months
my feet are so sensitive that i have to walk on the gutter

i think about Katie
and about old money and the smell of her Kentucky air
and my fingers spread at my side
in a phantom romantic gesture

i sob uncontrollably on the swingset at the park
i twitch when she says she now makes love

Writing Exercise 5

Word: Risorial

risorial muscles twitch
spasms like a dying insect
when the station is set to static hiss
my eyes water in hedonistic bliss
or the wild eye fear of a star slaughtered cow
at the sound of the wet death at the head of row
and like cracked falling leaves from a bough
my brain body disconnect is out of control