pillow case face

later that day I receive word
of her bed collapsing post
midmorning tryst
subsequent rolling suitcase
endless emotional departure

later that day I lay
in my childhood bed, warm, soft
free of plastics and carbonates
under fresh mom washed sheets
and wonder

how many beds
can I break
with my bare
body?

this theme is sentimental

I'm killing polar bears for you.
I took a ship to the arctic, I'm blowing them up.
I'm taking you to a rock concert on the moon
to celebrate. There is free beer.

I'm collapsed on the floor,
butt up.
I'm hugging the blanket
you put down as a rug.

I'm screaming about the holes on the floor:
This was a forest, there were deer, here, can you see the holes? Once, you wouldn't have needed a blanket. Once, snow lay in whorls of icing, undisturbed. Do you hear me? Do you love me?

I would have blown up every single deer for you. I would have built a floor from that forest for you.

I would have blown up every motherfucker, 'till it was just you and me, baby.

HOT WHEEL ROMANCE

the problem with being a

'writer' of sorts

[I don't claim to be the best I told you that

but I'm Violante's fave

and I MUST litter my ;poetry;

with RICHES of inside jokes]

is that while I am thinking

'this is the best moment

of my friggin' intense indie life'

I ALSO THINK

HOWEVER CAN I WRITE ABOUT THIS

on the Internet

childhood coal walks (control pt. II)

barefoot,
hot gravel feels
like hot coal

small feet
take small steps towards the house
I force each foot to remain grounded
for three seconds each

small heels
ripen to red apples
in the heat

and yet
my heart refuses to burn

this city becomes quiet

with the cold

a coyote

tilts his head slightly

lifts his nose to traffic

breathes out steam

headlights paint his eyes

two glowing suns

disappearing

into some alleyway

where codes painted

in neon strokes

lay in wait

for the light to reach them.

Jormungandr

Wolf rolls a warming joint
Packs her thick n generous

Outside, Autumn writes an obit
with naked trees
fractals against the sky
such cycles are keenly felt
at certain latitudes

Pensive Wolf in chain-mail
frees a swampy lungful
recall the pants of fleeing monks
their cloudy breaths
as they struggle thru the snow
recall the skullful crunch
of the throwing-ax

take a hit Snaky on that tail of yours
let the world spin a bit longer
every saga of human ambulation thus:
puff, puff, pass

the thin lines between

the road stretches out
before me
like a sleepy grey cat

everything is stranger in moonlight:
the air is the blue
of late night neon signs
OPEN!
OPEN!
there aren't colors for
closed signs,
just the grey of darkened
store windows

I play games when I drive
I could keep the wheel straight
when the guardrails curve
I could
I won't
but I could

control, control, control

as a little kid,
sometimes I liked to flip to
the last page
of my book before everything
was already finished