Wednesday, October 24, 2012


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.

Monday, October 08, 2012

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.

The Wolf Within

I was telling this chic
(that looked like
Mike Ness, but
without tattoos)

about Wyoming
making it legal
to hunt wolves,

while we smoked
outside of a bar.

Behind us, a barber pole’s
motor ran, but
nothing turned.

It was more
candy cane than
spiraling down.

She asked if I ever
saw one die and
I replied that I had,

but I also saw it live.

On Friday, Oct. 5th, the State of Wyoming opened up hunting on Wolves. I wrote these two poems Thursday, Oct. 4th.