Gulls, and a yurt

NOT ENOUGH MONEY

Jacksonville Jaguars to Detroit Lions: 'You stink.'

Don't the truth hurt.

No bailout would help this team . . .

NO LONGER NECESSARY

ooooooooo(a poem for fall)


The spider's head floats into the house

It's screaming, it keeps screaming

atoms flying in and out of its black mouth

You use the remote, turn off the sound, and listen . . .

For miles, through the trees,

Across the lake

They're cheering again.

IDAHO


Traveling toward . . .

--reflection in the glass,
the snow, the mist--

a heartbeat halfway up,
one knuckle at a time

the clouds collect
the loneliness

a rope straight down around a brick,

and moss

slow love

11/09/08


I'm on the lee side of this front, spits of snow
hitting the brown wood of the liquor store,
and the red light sways above traffic. Overnight
one wants to sleep under the steam of passing
waves of ice and snow. It's a dream you have,
staying warm and alive. The lantern of your mind
turning and turning all night. Who has not filled
a Mason jar with cider and watched Aguirre:
The Wrath of God, go do it. But get under a blanket.
I won't ever forget those threads, and they mix it up
well with the polish, Stanford's Snake Doctors,
joining us in class on the tenth of November . . .
So I put on the heavy coat, the one made out of
industrial burlap and then lined nine times,
and there like the history of dismemberment:
my gloves all balled up, gripping each other, inside
the dark pocket. Meanwhile, it's dimly flickering blue
inside a brown house, the one on the corner, and the
backfiring commences--the just now waking furnace.
It gets so dark when the world leans away. And a
Caddy with one headlight appears, moving off Scott
Street. At first I think it is a lamp on a coal miner's
helmet. That's how nice it is. That's how fucking
cold.

LITTLE BRASS SKULL


There's so much mud in the blood

Men with their
glass eyeballs ticking

moment to moment

Bridges expand in the mind

the lonely mother darns
in the smoke 00in the wind

a noose
and four hooves

float through a forest of invisible birds

the pride of the taciturn

an abandoned estate sale

the skittering of insects and mice . . .

A cigarette glows on someone's front porch

her gown

as each thread comes loose in the current