Iowa boy

six feet tall in your construction vest,

with teeth in Aryan white and

hair a color straight out of

a cornfield a little west of

here, Iowa all-American boy,

how did you get to be working

at this airport in this shitty job

with no benefits

you keep your own high-school yearbook

picture framed above your bed

someday you will talk about your "glory days"

for now you will sweat as you take out the trash

it's a longshot
he says
and circles all the right numbers
in dark ink pens

sometimes you simply
run with it
let the odds
work out of your favor

Cigarette Haiku

Sell yr clothes
100mph, 5 hours long
Cry twice, Smoke 10

foolish

i am existing on

potato chips

coffee

and the belief

that i'm going somewhere.

i haven't left the state in months

the country in years

and dreams only take me

two hours north;

standing in the doorway of your room.

sometimes people gather

just to remind the individual

that they are loved

when I had seen only four
summers, my aunt got out the
fingernail clippers, held my small
nubby hands in hers, said

--these are growing so long!

she clipped my nails short and
close to the finger
I didn’t bleed but I didn’t like

how easily I shed pieces of myself,
no fuss, no mess
and maybe that’s why I cried

the thing is that I'm not good with directions
I take them well, give me a task, I'll do it
probably

put me in a city, I'll find something great
probably
but I certainly won't find what I'm looking for

the thing is that I know where I belong
there is a circle bound to my wrist
full of the foggy faces of youths

you could
probably
call them

i bagged clothes

--these for donation, those for rags

and when i returned

they were folded

mixed and un-sorted

everything is being re-arranged behind me

here in spirit, but really

you're

gone

Krokodil

we walk around and watch tv
and do nothing else
smiling, slightly

our blue eyes
the pupil unmasked
dilated eyes of the dead
stare straight ahead

today i found a handful of things
i couldn't carry back when i was
a much younger version of myself

armful of books and empty liquor bottles
that my mother left behind for all of us
to share and fight over

trying to decide how to confront
a family of problems
slamming cabinet doors

i banged my nose and tinny blood
was all i had to remember
my father by

1998

i see an airplane

burst into flames

high in the atmosphere

plummet and burn away.

dad in the driver's seat

tells me it's a shooting star.

i am six years old

on the 805 in san diego

and this

memory

feels real

but I cannot remember

if it is.