four poems

1

Two hours there at 913 Filbert w/ Mr Allen, who gave me all but two
damn minutes. They teach you in driving school never to stop in front
of a hydrant. No stopping, no parking, no nothing,
in front of a hydrant.
I clutched my doctored photos of the 100 block of 11th st.
shocked that my Olympia doesn't have a number one key,
looked down in hesitation at my leather portfolio (two bucks)
as the tape rolled. He stapled papers, I now have 23 days
again, the PPA, you win. Have at it. I took off work for this.
Up another hour past Bryan's farm, w/ the corn stalks really looking
well, to DVCC to meet Donna, for an orange dum dum, to correct my errors.

I've no grand scheme here, nor beautiful thoughts
the gas struggles up the hills, to the left giant walls
   of wildflowers (she told me they look clearly man-made
              the same white car out by the no passing zone
              for sale. Who will buy it, I wonder, on my next trip up?
The XX crossing where I always rev the engine
the only exciting part of the drive.

Amy, now I can't get the text out of my damn head, forever
thinking of you whenever I write, even just thinking of writing
which I do much more often. And not even about you in particular,
just that I have to when I write a poem, that you will always
linger there in the back of my head, nodding over my shoulders
w/ your sleeves in your palms, smoking a cigarette, clutching--

I've not seen Tim in a long while and I do not worry.
The man creates and the man delights in doing so.



2

Found myself in some dwelling w/ the fur of a lamb
found myself, at least, somewhere warm.
Softening glare out here ,  ouch, find yrself
by the eyeglass lab and read the hrs that aren't yr own
and I'll never get here on time, never on time.

This happened to us naturally.
We pool together in our fields and trains and pools

writing bullshit for the most part, not ever to confess one's
drunkenness, never to shake firmly the hand of a beautiful
girl w/ short hair. I don't LIKE these new people
at all, let us GO. My old people are steady but slow.
I drip here and there wanting more blank spaces to fill in,
delights me neverendingly to fill something.
To type fast
to write greatly, even w/ errors, w/ faults
and never receiving praise but who cares
no wine no flowers, right? no glory in the pot
no hillside home to roll, and that means fat ones, pal.

Ah, but to be great and alone w/ that greatness
take a long piss in Carpenter's wood one night, over and over,
the same night. Enough to drown branches and dead trees and the crick
we dammed up. Me and some friends. I have some and that is pretty

fucking good.
lifting each other's fur.
brushing each other, baa, baa, baaaaaaaaaaaaa.
  To use few words greatly
to be natural
to sum me up, this poem, this qt. I drink from
is to be pretty damn great, which is to say; baaaaaa.



3

Count me OUT of it. Te Ching and the spirit of the valley
(not delaware) never dies, delaware? where tien and his goon
live? That ugly and cut
teeth & glasses and long, pointy loafers w/ some money
take yr money,
never again be on Race st. after closing time,
never again sing kokomo too loud as to drown out the harmonies
asking me what I'm doing
people always ask me what I'm doing, what is it w/ this thing I do?
I hear you don't have to pay sales tax over there, you fucking philistine.
I never knew what happened to Samson at the end.
Was Delilah a whore or wasn't she?
Are we ourselves leading up to some horridly regurgitated tale
over centuries so much so to be recognized simply by 'American'
that makes people think of persons such as you. W/ your shit outfit.
Samaritans & Philistines, what awful fates regardless.

Felicity just for the sake of having used it once in a poem of mine.
Done. Sundry, as well. Nicky, yr boots are in the trunk. Get them.
Sean, what are we here for again? Give me one of those easy answers
you always have. I respect anyone who makes it look EASY
but only with inherently difficult tasks.
I'll be gone from all this soon enough and what will the children
(no, wait!! forget them, the adults)
what will they think of us,
"what did he do?
this American?"


                         he lived and he wrote sparsely
               thought of 1-5 different women at a time
                went to drink and stayed in to eat
                     drove much more than anything else
                     and was great at it
                     worth study.



4

This kind of output is dangerous, said the technician.
4500 amps or some-sort, said the writer, posing as a technician.
A female doctor inspects his calves w/ gloves, it felt like
meat wrapped around bricks, almost, chuckling, as the writer w/ his
quart of Heineken, routinely checked his facebook in-between stanzas.

Where are the good ones now, with the language so fresh and easily
identifiable. The city poems, the city, remember? The rock that gives
exhausting death yet always treating it lightly,
that's me for the most part
father found three bicycles today
all different sizes and colors
one of them was good enough for me
I was big enough for it
The other, my mother
and the last one, my father.

I cough out a bubble of bacteria
thinking that I shouldn't use my poems as a way
to communicate to her, and that they shouldn't be used by her
as a way to be communicated to, her own magic mirror
into my sordid life. FACTS left me an envelope for $20, somehow
without my knowledge. Well-played, and the children are especially
naughty. The tallest one hits the ball without any issue
I don't really have to teach her too much at all and
like most women, never really know if they're enjoying it or not.
I'm sure as hell enjoying it, wiping down the blades
alone, in the large cafeteria room, exhausted.

this is a thankless poem.