Monday, February 25, 2008


The wife wanted out. Well, at least
she thought that she was pretty sure
it would happen, but on her terms.

However, one night went away in shame.

Her husband wrestled naked with
some fellow middleclass people.

A man and a woman.

The man was one of her husband’s new friends.
A married union carpenter and bowler was all she knew about him.

He did things to her husband that
she never would have thought of doing.

The woman was a topless dancer at The Fire Peach.
She was convinced to party with the two men over
Alabama Slammers and dead president paper.

The two men pleasured each other while
the woman counted her money again.
With one hand she adjusted
a black strap-on.

With the other she removed her earrings.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Most People Only Have Five Senses

Two people, in their Sunday best, feed pigeons
children’s fingers. Each day delivers the world

as closed-eye visions like voodoo crucifixes
dripping down feng shui walls.

Words dodged like a bad comic’s tomato
onslaught. Each day delivers the world

as a slimy stage. The closed in audible space
between person and humanity.

Hands that once held each other tightly
now scarred, unknown. Each day delivers the world

as a dog bite. Depending how your life has gone,
you’ve been either puppy gummed or vicious mauled.

Either way, saliva’s aroma will cover vases of
flowers bending towards the sun. Each day delivers the world

as an infectious rhythm section swaying swiftly
towards a reminiscent scent, nostril scrapeage.

Blood reluctantly leaves its home. Blood’s trail
along the trachea leaves evidence. Each day delivers the world

as a lost tooth. The crimson doesn’t taste like cherries.
It’s a rust flavor now. The rain has tainted it.

The Scouts


We moved through the night in silence.
More silent than the lice in our hair.

Army-crawling across a field of brush,
sharp thorns bite with kisses.

Spotlights blast down
searching for us.
Between a forest and an airport
we hide without cowardice.


Positioned against the crying horizon
an upright image shrugged off existence.

As we moved in closer, we could see that
it was not human though its actions were
easily excusable for one. Just
two pieces of wood held together by
nail rust and wind.

The sign sticking out of the ground said:

Natural Grass
Do Not Mow

We sat the at the edge of a potholed highway,
smoked cigarettes and picked at the plants.