Hillbilly Roar

There's pro wrestling in town

at the armory,

and I can hear all the

hillbilly roar

from my house.

Hillbilly roar

from a mile off.

So I wedge my knees

against the well-polished wood

of the skinhead bar-

the one with all the good beers-

and there's a guy with a broken

volume knob-

turned up until it cracked off.

And a girl crying

sounds like a rodent

with broken ribs.

And the bartender,

his hat just like mine,

is showing a regular the professional

wrestler trading cards

he collected when he was a kid.

Self Titled

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your horse,

and your cute little accent.

Fuck this,

"I love you,"

bull shit.

Fuck your beautiful eyes.

Fuck the way you run.

Fuck that laugh,

recorded on my brain.

Fuck asking questions

you don't want answered,

and fuck not answering.

Fuck you,

just fuck you.

Sparkle Harvest

Downtown,
rumbling, grinding
scraping sounds
from the sky.
Trains in the dock yard-
police choppers.
Girls, and they are all so beautiful,
and wet
streets, so easy
to slip.
Dogs barking, off leash
drooling into carriages,
obscured by smokestacks,
exhaust.

Seed

There is a kiss

on my lips

or somewhere deep inside

my face

or in my soul like a swollen seed

hidden from light,

or wherever kisses hide,

that you should have gotten.

That I'd hoped you were waiting for;

that you never received

and likely never will.

But it's there,

still,

and it's yours

and that's almost good enough.

Week Four

Then comes that moment of despiration.

Those feelings that fill pages-
empty the soul.

When you get so worried you are going to lose her,
for no reason,
that you start to believe you already have.

And you just want to cry out.
And you feel the angry weight
of the summer sun.

And you feel like you are working
three times more
than you are sleeping.

And you just want to cry out,
whatever you do, please,
for the love of god,
I am begging you, please
don't stop loving me
first.

Evocation

I will ride into battle

bored, broken hearted, burnt and bruised,

if you will not forsake me again, oh muse.

I'll call out in the night

in exhaltation, not despair

only for the hope of finding you there.

And if you were at the bottom

of some hopeless crowded sea,

I would gladly drown

to find me next to thee.

Full Pockets

I've got time
and brain cells
to kill.
1,000 fuses to light.
Well, 12.
Nobody to talk to-
nothing to do.
Ice cold,
everything to drink,
all the seat a man needs,
a clock and a wallet.
I've got inpiration for the desparate,
despair for the inspired,
two beautiful eyes,
recording.

I've got a pair
of magnets,
a pen and a notebook.
And I can lie,
boy can I lie.

This night will burn.
Not one stone
will be left standing
upon another.

Smoke

Bent over a steel counter,

hand on a dirty rag,

watching a heavy rain douse

the fires I've started.

No more fires.

These days there is no horizon,

only false peaks.

These days there is no big or small

wonder,

just wonder

and the things I need.

Suburbia

A wasp in a warzone
stalls in a cloud
of pipe smoke
the color of sun-bleached asphalt-
retreats.

Life here
is a still pond
full
of life, unseen
from the surface.

Breaking only
occasionally
for a breathless moment,
useless ripples
useless ripples-
too lazy to last.
Failing
against simple gravity.

Bathtub Gin

I was out of beer

but not yet drunk enough

to be done with my day,

so I called you

just to listen to you talk.

And like bathtub gin,

your words pushed me over the edge

of inebriation

and I sank

into myself,

happy,

but not content.

Wanting more

than your words.

Reaching, feeling

in the dark

like a blind fool

every inch

of the miles between us.

Craving you

while I had you.

Like one more before last call.