Poems in Notebook form 1/5-1/8, 2015

He says in a cool southern manner: be careful on boardwalks

with bikes. They are dangerous and people have been sent 

to hospitals and i ruminate obsessively over this. Did they fall 

from boardwalk into seething dried palmetto festooned snake pits? 

"Are you a meditation master? She asks and I reply, as if

in when asked 'do you play tennis? it's best to respond,

'yeah, I can hit'. "We will do some sitting". ('Yeah I sit.')

I walk exposed and aware of the covert danger 

                         lurking 

                                      beneath

                                                 so much beauty.

My narcissism slithers out in workshop. I become childishly greedy 

        wanting all eyes needing all ears for my words alone -- 

and spaces between them, flickering's of everything, unrequited in me

The giant rotary

ceiling fan as if 

                            tit 

with pasty covered 

appendage descending.

O my descendants. 

I would not subject a

                            man

to the likes of me again. 

Wells of Resistance--

is this extraction

or dissolution you

have pandered to

all these years?

The bedding has been chosen

so carefully. We create a cocoon

of simulated womb space with 

sensoral omission a constant

supply of swaddle our arms

around doll sized girths. Then

                   the milk. 

When one mouth is not flesh groping,

it takes only the best BPA free, sterile                

                     nipple.

Black and white
Ghost of Lowell 

Nesbit, room 17, 

visited me in multi

colored orgasm, no

image attached to 

                            the string.

Are those contrails

       or chem trails

       up there? 

Hard difference to tell.

The swamp of lime green gatorade smells insidious.

Hello people, that's The Yoga Teacher 

out there on the open road, mid - run

with a six pack of hard cider hanging

from left arm and one diet coke, the other.

That rattler had been dubbed
"the devil" he told me

          7 rattles 

          7 years
beaded not unlike, in shape and number
a human cervical spine, more commonly called 'neck'.
Head hacked off                                          via machete.

And when the coasts were thought clear

its superior severed nervous system 

                                                             ----------------------------------------------------------     spat:

three       last       gasps       of        venom.

The flimsy cellular connected voice barely comes through: "Hi mommy"

like Poltergeist's "Where 

                                       are 

                                             you  

                                                    Mommy?             I can't see you mommy."

He sounds sleepy. I love him so. Yet let him be. And this           scares me.



What is the tiny groping, remnants of love no longer but desperate clinging, barely audible-
more than a whisper and less than a hissing? It is the wrath of our time gone awry, possibly unintended, or even (then) anticipated. And not unlike vomit or lava, a protest from depths:
                                                         
                                                            the only sound
                                                            fragments left
                                                            March now
                                                            to the dirge of
                                                            dial tone drones



There is an eternal cornerstone of vulnerability, human frailty's unrelenting landmarks-
as clear as the scars I wear on the surface of my own flesh. It may be witnessed in the
scab colored lunch between ones teeth, the piss a small child lingers in -- denies and is
consumed by simultaneously, the spittle that may accumulate around a young mothers
mouth post-electric shock, the shit that stains an orange jumpsuit clad man in some
unknown endless desert just before a blunt knife sears his throat and a barely severed
head drops to the grainy Earth with remnants of his now defunct nervous system dangling
like tendrils only partially attached. Yes that is me and if you are still reading, it is you too.