in tiny rivulets

I wring and wring
the thing; hot blood
streaming in tiny
rivulets beading,
burning my hands.
I wring till almost dry.

Strong arms shake
up down out, uncurling
smooth and one safety
pin at a time I hang
my heart to dry,
hot summer breeze

blowing. Billowing
in the wind, clean
scent of bleach stinging
and the sun warm
across my face, soft,
bright in my eyes.


hot tea and white corn tortillas

It used to be biscuits,
homemade. Not the fluffiest things
but drenched in butter.

It soothed my heart
to mix the dough and pound soft,
roll and cut and pinch

the tidbit sides left for
me to eat like a kid licking the
bowl of some sweet.

It has always been tea
hot with sugar, now raw cause
my stomach no longer

handles the white
stuff. Sickens at that and meat
and oils and I feel

old sometimes but
sooth my soul with hot tea
and white corn tortillas.

Monday, June 12, 2006

i need coffee

I need coffee
and a cigarette
only I cut back
on caffeine
and don't smoke.

I need a beer
I'm craving beer
only I don't drink
never have really
but do increasingly so.

I need a fuck
a good rutting fuck
only I dont hook-up
or sleep around. did
briefly, went wild

in my lame hermitic
way, but now don't.

I'm just restless
and going nowhere
not soon. have to bide
my time and finish...
another two years?

Then I'll have
my beer, get fucked,
have coffee over eggs
in the morning
while he smokes.

Maybe by then I'll want
else, have moved on.


Sunday, June 11, 2006

the sky was not enough

there is
no stillness
no white space
no long pause
it was a dream a
beautiful dream
we had but one
of us awoke and
realized the sky
was not enough
to hold us much
deeper than
friendship's
fondness.


Saturday, June 10, 2006

saturday's seeds

I
in the window I catch
my reflection slim trim
skinny little curves big
ones. men look up down
catch my eye receive a
wink turn away move
on. always they are mov-
ing on. I catch my gaze
in the window strong
sure unneedy and smile.

II
even the happy words
would have come in tears

III
the ladies pass in their fashions
new. I look down at my old
work shoes. the insides they are
worn warm moist from heat
cracked from salt sweat molded
to me. outside weathered
from the yard the paint. handmade
leather they will last my life
long. as all the ladies pass in their
fashions I stand in my common
sense.

IV
I suck my bottom lip
but do not cry instead
eyes move to paper
hand grasps the pen.

V
Michael,
is it tears or sweat you wipe
from your nose and cheek?
Michael,
mr. natural with flowers in
your hair no shoes on your
feet, basket and book in hand.
Michael,
are you crying, were you in
the war, what have you seen?

Vi
can you see the moon, d?
asks I the useless friend.