Wednesday, April 10, 2013
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 thingsare happening.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
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 abathroom, sometimes, just to get away
Friday, January 04, 2013
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
Eat my flesh raw. Chew through muscle,
tendons and bone.
Get to my lonely heart before someoneshoots you in the head.
This poem is for all those who are really into zombies. Whatever their reasons.
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,
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
There’s a creepy photograph
on a fireplace’s mantle.
On a wall there is photograph
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
that wrap around whole lakes.
White tail deer hunt the offspring
of plantswhile 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.