Conan the Barbarian Considers the Wheel of Pain
a barbarian in my own mind.
We Who We Are When We Are Talking At The Party
We are burning heaps, pyres where no one is buried
Florencia Remembers the Elephants
No one, not even the assistant manager, knew what we were going to do
we are approaching.
John Milton Ensor Parker
in this struggle we grow alone
I destroy those around me? I buy a ladle
The garden is planted under the hidden eye.
Motes of Orange
I have waited all day to be held In the air as if I were a trumpet made of sand.
Poema for Lawrence Welk
Considering Lawrence Welk and all those pregnancies.
Emil is a liar. The Adriatic is cold. I feel the snap of its water on my legs.
Poem: 115 DEGREES
A Paper: Great Gentile Athletes of the Early 1970s
She had never known if they were real, the memories.
The lamp clicked. Black detour.
The mother: stopped humming. Your father is a Christian.
ALTOONA IS STEALING ALL OF OUR GOOD STUFF
Breathing’s almost the same you say.
JANUARY ISN’T A BEGINNING
I want to stop writing your name and sitting in the sand is only half the solution.
Then, just out of curiosity, I step up on a rock so I can see what, or who, is in the basket. I stand and look down as they solemnly pass. And sure enough, it’s me, dressed in my work clothes.
“Quick son,” he huffs, bending to pick up the hose, “They’ll be back. They’ll be back in a minute”
A Brief History of Photography
She breathes the deep rot and thinks moss me.
Ramshackle Ode to Alternatives
where’s the joy in shouldering night into workday
Wind Elegy with Ash From a Burning Map
I was boarding the windows with plywood.
from SERMONS AND LECTURES BOTH BLANK AND RELENTLESS