I took part in the 7th installment to the reading series Poetry Confluence this weekend. I read from On Stainless which just came out and is available for sale. Email me firstname.lastname@example.org for details. Or you can use that same email address and order directly from PayPal, be sure to provide your address when you make your 10 dollar payment.
Hey followers, sorry to be so absent. I’ve been busy! Check out what I’ve been up to.
Some of the poems in these books you’ve seen on apocalypsepoet some of them will be new to you. Email me at email@example.com for the details on how to get your copy. Act quick because they’re selling out!
There is a sickly brown
Stem stuck in the earth
Bowing to its finished feet,
To the little creatures
To whom the dead, still, are useful,
Where it stood green last spring,
Breathing weightless tufts
Across uncut, dewy crabgrass,
Past dull sword ferns,
Approaching with caution the queen’s cups,
Under and around ladies tresses,
And landing more lightly than
Golden flowered buttercups
Next to the chewed red soccer ball.
Was one caught in a fortunate vortex,
Or passed by a dutiful, nostalgic finch,
And laid back?
Returning is only
Returning by space;
Mortal, rent, and old.
A wise man once
Spoke, and seemed less wise.
Although I know you can’t go home
Again I found myself
Trudging back, back, back
Through the hills behind old town.
– Quite bare since the first time
I hid in the trees smoking joints
And lobbing small stones
At lumbering freight trains
With Randy and Mike –
I found the old one,
The red one that grew in the aspens
-More elite than the ponderosa knights
Hewn for sport
Burned for comfort
Beetled to hollow-
Where the old Gods labor,
Near the observatory,
Where ol’ Percival’s glass helmed
Sepulcher is stamped in the bedrock
Facing his red angler;
Monarch of untouched land,
The one whose highest boughs
Could hold my adult weight.
From there I saw a fawn born. Once.
I found the old one
A horizontal funereal mound
Across the aspen grove
Where a new lord paces new growth
Cramming carrion in cracked eroded soil
Testing new fill before the pavers come.
And the aspen’s song
Is a clapping breath.
-It’s grievous to waste the usefulness of the dead-
still has her top
in a snow-globe
on my car’s dust
Were I the artist
who captured her
her top would tumble
at the push of a button,
red confetti, not white,
when she shook,
To protect her
from the illusion of stasis.
She is after all
encased in a perfect circle.
One unexpected shake
might send her
on gravity’s only path.
I knew the ponderosas
before I carrIed camouflage
when the boys made gray doors
to bravery, breathed, and drew the desert In
I wore forest green at mId-day
to the afternoon
all shadow and sepIa
In Its shade a quIet omen hId,
behInd last year’s breast,
from the better Influence of It
You are a sailor without a sea or star-chart
Walking toward angles and stopping when prompted.
– Nicotine only makes you grumpy –
Don’t feed the bears.
Black eyes are warnings
Of themselves, but climbing
Your length, crosswise,
You’ll forget like you forgot
That night she embraced you
Then pulled out your tongue
As an example to the hunter.
No sense, talking, anyway.
Maybe it is a good idea, mapping the stars.
Connect the dots to the tune of significance
If only to account for the whereabouts
Of the bear and the hunter.
Through flapping blue
Sheets hung to dry
On one hundred
Miles of glowing
White cord coiled
Into five square acres
Which is green
Auctorite was falsely
Accused of entente
The faded red hat
Is lined with sentiment
That isn’t yours. So, to you,
The faded red hat
Is dirty. Somewhere an old man
Lost again. He won’t find his
Lucky hat on the brass hook
Near the laundry room door.
A loose dog tears through town.
A crisp paper bag soggys its bottom.
A dandelion grows in mowed grass.
It’s the first day of April.
I found a blunt, old, beaten sword
On the pathless side of a low stone wall,
And used it to pound my river into an ocean.
Then drank from my ocean down to its skin.
I ground the skin into a silky blue powder
That I carried with me in a sack,
Swinging from the point of my blunt old sword,
To the mountains at the edge of the valley
Where I fanned the foothills with sheer blue hue
So it matched that evening’s twilight seamlessly.
I collected the scene, folded in thirds,
and sent it into space in an envelope.
The add said wait six to eight weeks
To receive my X-ray specs.
Here, have a pull from this, said lyre to lungs
in some middle english verse.
Enough out of reach it rolled from her tongue
that slowing held its sweetness.
And they shared an erotic memory.
Breathed down on their lovers
the scent of onions and old wives, oddly,
taste was no business of theirs.
But he, tossing a gust through melody,
half like a sad voyeur,
half like a Daddy Warbucks parody,
exhaled sick self valor.
The music ended on a breath,
All folks take their own run at death.