a poem and three on poems

bark the silence


it's okay
having three green legs and
having to crawl.
that guy over there
has it worser.
kneel on the side of the bed
and i'll enter you.
i close my eyes to see the cave
grey cotton cloud
why does it hang between us
when my ears are open?
i read he got 75 years
and she goodbye to them.
now i have four legs
red red red
doggy style, Augustine
in my early period
chantnfuckchantnfuck
kiss me
i'm way over
here


~




our poets fail us



with their distance, their intimacy,
landscapes of letters and space,
nickels and dimes shiny,
vomit in the streets,
sweat in the sheets

the pockmarked nobility
traded for nobilities of farewell
and imperfections, crafting a world
they call our own,
nobility of alone
instead of
the poem


~





there is a fussiness


we need, and we are, one by one
the only ones who know whether
this fussiness is necessary or not

sometimes, if we are not fussy enough
our knives fly, slicing through
the remainder of the world,
the parts of it we don't care for
while we talk of creation


~




The wildmen here


hate you and your little doilies
and your dusty tomes
and buggly aphorisms.

try wearing that doily on your head
eat that book
and squish the proverb to nothing
until it looks like a smear on the back page
of the Star

we will love you then
like midnight


~


1 10 08 - 1 17 08