fingers have caught the scent of paper;

and can taste the smell of words thinking.


now caught in the line of this pen,

in the line that draws the water

leaving the well enough alone.


alone with the humming of wine coolers;

in the words of dead men;

in the words of the letter; of the keyboards and pen;


in the sent of letters and the senseless

of the heaven scent.


now caught in the net where

the lines draw across this empty.


where the mind stretches out over days awake;

days awake with the turning of planets,

the turning of cranks and sheets.


where empty is the new full.


where alone is all together.


the odds are even and the stage is a set table.


the spoons, the knives,

the forks in a road.


now caught in the curve

of these fingers around this pen.


let one word turn over on its back

because when it’s gone and left,

it’ll sneak right back in.


it’ll sneak right back in to the left side

of thought nothing of it.


now wrapped

around the tip of an iceberg;

round the rim of glass,

but the parting of ways


and the parting of lips.

when the doldrums swing their violazy ladies

while the doldrums swing their violazy ladies
there are symphonies,
faking sneaker shuffles in the urban accordynasties.

but no two here like animalto’s go
licking the banjugular.

so it will be roof toperas,
while the doldrums swing
thier violazy ladies.

the city sleepwalks,
handless it goes piccolonely.

but the first movemeant so much to me.

and the sidewalkwards are neither
here nor there,
but the wine is troumbountiful,
and alto’s play saxafrass tunes.
isn’t it cellovely?

how the birds are clarinesting with the bees,
and how the doldrums swing
their violazy ladies.

under the pickled moon

sweet and sour,
the vinegarish glow
of pickled moon.

would you cucumback to me,
my love?

you had me all
in one bite, but
left me bitter
and jarred.

i relishouldn’t let
those memories
float to the top.

i will put a lid on it,
while i’m here:
under the pickled moon.

here's to hoping you never read this

we could settle this like a couple of maddogs.
and roll around in some red dirt,
until you can’t tell the blood from the clay.

for him and for the holy of it

When the love of Him gave her clouds,

Pandora gave her tempest.


When Magdalena gave them rain,

Pandora flooded.


When Eve’s bitterfruit tongue tasted us

The fare-thee-well overture,

We composed her slaughter:


Cinder hot

And all hell’s hue.


When He

And His letters of

Better-Off-This-Weighed down the address of Ophelia,

Magdalena leveled the mount for the gravestone.


She dragged out the levee for His body.

But she hasn’t found the whole of it yet.


When out the last lit wick of His eye of dream went

And the ash of Him

Gave her His hand in head to go,

It was go.


It was go then:


For her.


For Him


and for the Holy of it.

we begged for dirty, we begged for dry

while the sleeping doorman bloomed,
we consecrated the restroom.

we used to have these outlaw parts.
we used to be a vagrant heart.

we used to be rowdy at the heel.
we skippers of stones, we are what we feel.

and then out of the temples came the oracles few.
and behind them came the rest of you.

a herd of clenched knuckles rest,
in the pockets of a winter vest.

but we saunter on, gypsies on the grift.
with our fists of corona, our western smiths.

we were children of rye
we were too big to lie.

we were doused in the amber water.
our city a shadow of the house of our father.

in fountains, we bathed with a city bird.
we counted each day on the need that we heard.

in the promised alleys our palms were pried open;
our psalms spread open like some desperate token.

never came the alms or candles lit.
never came the madman's fit.

we were the lost boys of worthless cred.
we were the daughters of the unborn dead.

when the department reached a consented fee,
your crowds came with the decree.

one whole day was spent on wine.
with our last dollars we squandered time.

on the last day we fed ourselves to gin.
our donut eyes fixed on sin.

we begged for dirty, we begged for dry.
we begged for wicked, we begged for why.

we sweated juniper, we wasted airs.
we burned the bank down, we climbed the stairs.

and before they wrote the memorandum,
the night was over, the day of random.

before we muttered muffled requiems to our coats,
before we kissed the seals of all we had wrote.

we fed our olives to the floor.
we backed our people out the door.

where the sparrows swarm

all this pep and smile and smog,
but lite.
smog like diet cola.


sure can smell the difference.
soap and aluminum. bleach.

murphy’s oiled.
floral and punch.
all that together and then the pepsi.

or diet coke.
or schwepps.
or whatever.
like tonic and lime or redbull and vodka.

oh sweet merlot.

asphalt tar soot with claws.
flat gum shadow sidewalk.
and grass and gasoline together.

windex blue,
tennis court green,
hospital white,
sponge yellow.

and nothing is blood red.
jello red,
fingernail red,
cherry syrup red.

and the sun sets medicine bottle orange,
then purple giant valium sun
behind the box hedges
where the sparrows swarm plastic bag brown.
and theleaves are supermarket green.
and the flowers are all peppy dismal pink.

and the bees fly in straight lines.

sweet jim your darling eva

dearest eva,
even the clouds here are colder, all may be lost.
love, jim

sweet jim,
new orleans is bleeding.
your darling eva

oh my eva,
i remember love and the smell of oranges.
yours, jim

my jim,
the streets are a bourban flood and i cannot swim.
eva

my lost little eva,
the postman declares his love for you.
jim

my faithful jim,
all of the gossamer flowers have wilted, perhaps we shall never meet again.
your darling eva

two of the poems i wrote for you just know

1.
i can see now that this has become an affair
of one line getting on top of the next
or under or between

and the real of it all is i love the way
you pronounce yourself
and how your syllables taste
and so on

and look how our words get on together so well
and so sweet

2.
but
and i say but
because
but i do but go chasing
my own tale
into the curl of your lap
like milk in a bowl
by the tongue of a cat

we dew or dew not love

we are a midnight waltz

in a haze of liquor dreams.


be here now

for i am a bird of chance.


you play the apple,

and i’ll strum the serpent.

and let’s promise nothing.


it’s not the rain or the river

but the damp of some sin.


we dew or dew not love.


you stay like a river rock

and i’ll split you an adam.


meanwhile eve will always come again.

like a bitchcat to the racoon

“suck this shit,” she warbles,
bathed in dandylion streetlight.
her straggled hair sits pompous
atop her freckled cheekbones.

her birdface and highbreasted cheekbones
glitter like stage jewelry.
how can someone so poor be?
as pretty as plastic?

“fuck off,” she mumbles
with moodring eyes
and leans in for the kiss.
this is so punk of her.

the barroom moonshine,
the sparkling rocks glass stars,
and the summernight breeze
cooing from air conditioner in the corner
is so romantic.

the humming bartender is a midnight owl.

she shoots poolroom eyes
from her deerhunter hips
until he slings her over a shoulder
and carries her chaos home.

her back arches
like a bitchcat to the racoon
by the alley dumpster.
she spews faded threats.

on the floor of the studio apartment,
dawn spreading marshmallow sun
across her speckled feathers,
she's a purring kitten.

where are you now, my handsome lizard?

new orleans crept bodylice our thighs and
invaded our squathouse nests;
a humid coldlove.

we sneezed like crackdust in every corner,
bought and sold ourselves on royal and frenchman,
on charters,
on decatur,
but never bourban.

have you tuned up those stringy hairs,
are you in jesus modal?

we caught a pair of rats in love,
rolling through the beehive.

and i thought your fidora,
in a july harvest
now looked like a pushy rooster.

we fed feral chickens,
in a ninth ward yardsore.
handfulls of corn and seed they wouldn’t eat,
too busy with feathertear,
too busy with gravel,
too busy with rock salt.

where are you now my handsome lizard,
my check point charlie?

where are you now my foolsgold tinkerbox?
my abandoned floodzone?
my broken levee?