Northwest of the City

The dogs have stopped wandering Colfax Ave.

They’re circling Sloan’s Lake, hunting fox.

They’re snapping geese necks with ease.

The undesirables seem to have given up on

Colfax too. Well, not really, but some have.

In an area that’s being called the “hottest”

new neighborhood, a man sleeps outside of

the library where all of these things

are happening.

Streets of London

For Laurie Bitzkowski

Like the headache of too many draft beers

or eating pizza that has bacteria spreading,

the chemistry has yielded bad returns.

A guitar and the private thoughts in school

notebooks, shoulder-to-shoulder, holding

each other up, missing work the next day.

Pieces on a chess board flee off into

different directions, feeling very alive,

and off in the distance, the sound of sighs.

Even action heroes have to go into a

bathroom, sometimes, just to get away

A Love Poem for the Zombie Apocalypse

Come on over here, you sexy zombie, you.

Work your reanimated corpse this way,

bring me your cold love and take my brain

away.

Eat my flesh raw. Chew through muscle,

tendons and bone.

Get to my lonely heart before someone

shoots you in the head.



************************************************
This poem is for all those who are really into zombies. Whatever their reasons.

One-sided Conversation

How cold is the beer in Tucson?

What was it that scared you about

driving through Death Valley?

Don’t worry, you don’t have to say

anything if you don’t want to.

I heard that there are Gila monsters

in Arizona that eat stray dogs,

alley cats and runaway children.

I once saw a bear in the middle of

Nebraska sitting on the side of I-80,

waiting for traffic to die down.

Cottage

There’s a creepy photograph

of Michigan

on a fireplace’s mantle.

On a wall there is photograph

of cancer

riding a motorcycle in Sturgis.

The bathroom has a painting

of Beaver Cleaver,

but someone drew a Hitler

moustache on it.

Wolverines rest on railings

of porches

that wrap around whole lakes.

White tail deer hunt the offspring

of plants

while we secretly hunt them.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012 (While listening to Captain Beerheart)

 I’m starving the carbon that flows within.

Mines are removing mountain tops and

the poor vote against their best interests.

Who’s watching who? Who cares?

Naked children run across a still lake,

laughing and crying, floating forever.

When the many false faces of existence

are peeping-toms, mirrors are dust.

Who has the original Trout Mask?

It seems all we have is replicas.

Silver Bullets for Werecowards

Tomorrow, in Wyoming, people

are allowed to hunt wolves for fun.

They’re not going to eat them.

They’re just going to kill them.

Why? Because they’re fucking pussies.

In certain parts of India,

tiger poachers are shot on sight.