Pat Tillman

I just finished reading Jon Krakauer's "Where Men Win Glory." I highly recommend this book to everyone. That's all.

The Sound of Horns Blaring into Black

Did you hear about the one who laughed?
The one whose shape resembled a woman?

“No. What happened?
I was battling fiction,
listening to music,
drinking beer,
chewing over life’s meaning,
procrastinating the dog’s bath.”

She had a black rose tattooed on her left shoulder,
a gambling habit that would make Wild Bill shudder,
couldn’t eat potatoes because of vodka nights,
could crush a mammoth’s skull between her thighs.

“Interesting. Then what?
Wait, don’t tell me.
I don’t have time to listen.
I have to change the litter box,
light a cigarette,
open more beer,
let the music drown out the sound.”

But what about the one who laughs?
A sound she has patented as a craft.
She waits for your next calculated step.
Next to your soul, her shadow has crept.

“What about the one who has to live,
blocking out laughs and smiles,
knowing only dust and frowns?
The one eating hotdogs in Cheyenne

as the howl of emptiness echo
throughout equivocalness?”

AWP 2010 is in Denver April 7-10

http://www.awpwriter.org/conference/2010headliners.php

George Saunders, Rick Bass, Sherman Alexie, Louise Mathias, Lance Olsen, Steve Tomasula, Jake Adam York, Yusef Komunyakaa, Oliver de la Paz, Robert Wrigley, Wayne Miller, Ravi Shankar and one Mr. David Dodd Lee. Just to name a few.

Let me know if you're coming out.

Arrival

Her plane arrived from overseas,
the windows reflecting the sun’s fear,
he was anxious, nervous, beat.
His body covered completely in sweat.

The tarmac was a painting of a bad dream,
silence where there was nothing to hear.
The ground seemed to shudder and break.
Even idle engines could make one deaf.

Did evil clouds mask the thoughts in her head
as she loomed towards him? Hell yeah.
Years of deception had killed his youthful zeal.
They were cliché, but they were definitely real.

Her touch caused panic like a shotgun to a bear.
Her kiss left burns of fire with hypnotic gleam.
Her voice made fallen angels lie and steal.
Her breath eradicated flowers and left them in a heap.

They left the airport to find a place to retreat.
There was audible moaning rising through a steam.
Sounds that could be the future death of Joan Baez
or keys unlocking an archer’s leather sheaf.

At the corner of Washington and South Peak,
the loudest place to hide a single scream,
the wind assaults a brittle brown leaf.
They get a room where she will become a freak.

Like a savage, deranged bitch in a heat,
rabid fangs sank deep and unclean,
she was sexual until he was dead.
The body devoured raw, a bloody steak.

To the Greed Heads

This woman that I know flourishes from
nightfall to daybreak. Continuous hours
of coincidental good fortune and sound
expert advice keeps the first-class sparkle
and charitable events at a premium. She
knows all of the “right” people, keeps an
accurate tally of the score. Nothing gets
by her. Not even the wilds of

a western wind. It is this advantage over
others that feeds her addictions. She injects
success, bumps lines of attitude, rapes fear,
sodomizes tradition without consent. She
continues to dominate through years of
glamorous existence and a behavior befitting
of a child raised by children or actions that
make even the most venomous black
mamba recoil from it’s arboreal grip.
Those who continually find themselves
getting in her way crawl and plea for mercy.
She rages on a cresting ocean wave of
omitted souls, as the hands of blue faced
babies slit disrespectful throats.

She has a very unique way about her.
Six sociologists tried to study her, for
academic purposes. None were published
again. I remember hearing about this
business deal that needed her approval in-
order to go through. It involved hundreds
of thousands of dollars for a documentary
about thirteen Austrian businesspeople,

men and women, that ascend to Colorado
for their claim of the many Rocky Mountain
opportunities to be had. This woman won’t
just sell anything out. She’s not into “that”
kind of Capitalism.

Buried At Sea

A girl that was once loved
sat on a peninsula where
one river becomes two.

An unbaited fishing pole braced
between sand and rock showed
stability and a lack of confidence.

To the vigilant spectator guarded tears
escaped her eyes like liquid roses
dripping down the front of a stolen dress.

A guy who once thought he
could save females from
themselves watched.

An unexpected departure from a
bar or mental hospital had him wondering
the lifeless streets alone and far from

any place that resembled a home.
Undeniable control freaks punching walls,
belching the alphabet backwards,

had run thin with the guy. Too many
manly actions happen by these places.
Like the time an eight foot cowboy,

scruffy-faced and a big iron on his hip,
stood on the corner looking for a horse.
A trough of bacteria water stood stagnant.

The girl never noticed the plentiful fish,
an eclipse far above or the invisible
lifejacket being cast out from the guy.

She was once loved by a different guy,
one that only threw dead weight.
The way to get out was to drown.

Politics Isn’t Always a Game of Poker-faced Halfwits and Liars

Machiavelli passage, a time and
a place for men to be good or not to be good.
A prince must have the knowledge of being able
to know the difference of appearance and action.

He should be loved and feared in order to
rule more effectively. He must remember that
many people are not good. They will need
to be dealt with quickly, maintaining the image of

goodness amongst the people. Appear more sympathetic
than merciless. The governed tends to respect those who
they believe is more willing to nurture than punish.
Deception to maintain the kingdom.

Keep the governed happy and content, but also keep those
who may wish to do harm under the impression
that one wouldn’t hesitate to destroy those that
are against the kingdom. Certain actions may be

necessary to keep the citizens fearful.
Tax money shouldn’t be wasted on unused bombs.