Cotton

I.

I've seen you old man,
fight a squirrel for a nut,

Your face baked hard,
a gnarled tree knot,

Hair white as acid spit.
You specialize in dice,

Drink, and coveralls. You
can catch the King

Of Snakes by the bend
at his neck, uncurling

Sleek stripes at the feet
of us grandchildren.

The way your fist uncurled
onto the Mayor's face.


II.

In that house of skins,
watched by the glass

Eyes of game, trophies
of your cruelty,

Your plow-wide back
scoops over thawed

Coleslaw and venison.
Your hateful wish came true.

Your children only call you
asshole. But my eye has

Bored and stopped.



(2001, unrevised, unrevisited)

On My Way...

On My Way..

Pillow Talk

So many dreams
lost on eyelashes,

Stuck-branch molasses,
a mile long stripe -

Pothole, you're close
enough to thumb,

Sweet black gum - morning
makeup on the tongue.

On My Way

We Live

Every culture in its cap,
backs set to the sky

Dug out like an eclipse
curved to the invisible eye

Exhalted pyramid and dome,
we are between the squares

Tied by lines
we move on maps

Each lazy ass can find
an ass to break

Pass the sick-
ness with a kiss

Abandoned shoe mountains
and bone artillery.

The old cold-hearted familiar you --
No one likes what they're selling.

How can we look so different
with a color wheel and light and space?

Day Before (II)

Lime cocoon
on a bucket

Handle. Locket,
insect jewelry,

Gathered pattern,
your alchemical

Stomach strung
the house gold.

Self Portrait (in cut-up)

Commuting

Varied squares and follicular plants
are blown bags on skins of dirt --
polythene tumbleweeds,
spun and grounded, like bees.

Hinged reflections mouthing,
one box to the next,
cloud on glass cloud on wall,
breathing in small spaces

Whetting the brain with
the endless task of complaint.

Holiday

Let's go look at rocks
For a thousand bucks
Ruined by the gasping sun

New Camp

There is always slavery
in man-footed things.

Beauty as far as you can

Women beneath sheets,
and stones.

The eye above and on

Self Portrait (in cut-up, txt version)

briar, toast and loam

High-toned at first
with a leafy onion skin
soon followed by crackling layers of

blood-wood toast
notes that pump

wrapped around the charred
edge holding it all together

Appetizers

Until we’re the thinnest
possible slices.

Not enough to fuck
or throw up.

Day Before (I)

We are tipped
eggs, cupped

Curves. Only
noses poke,

Toes unstuck.
Your Roman

Body, a candle
melted and reshaped.

Ditty (I)

Berried fists of black,
sugared to plastic
containers,

Are tumped into
a hot summer mouth,
smacked loud as a slap.

Bubble

tongue blown
on the sweet
umami