standing in a shed ruminating over cans of Miller High Life and Camel cigarettes



hear

how the gray rain

blows open



November's

soggy notes

of beer-colored



leaves

and

cigarette smoke



we stand in

brown shoes

upon orange



pine needles

pointlessly gazing up

the trunks



of brown oaks

and charcoal pines

moist, resplendent



speaking the whens

of fish and ice

on the small ponds



as the brown

earth waits

so do we



for snow

god curse america



shit

it just happened again

God damned life



the diabolical

red mists

float again



in the canyons

of bluest

florescent doom



here is where

the black dog

walks



and here

is where the rank

cogs talk



here

is where

Paul Wellstone died



and here

is where

Americans cried

wants nothing



Jackson

black dog



we'll never

trim

your wiry fur



(ever)



this Saturday night

you've lost a white

baby tooth



a tiny amount

of your blood

stains

the wood floor



as it's night

we now remove

your red collar



as you hustle

toward the back

of the house



suddenly

you see

young Harlequin



chiaroscuro

gypsy cat

black and tan



half-pint

foliage-colored

feral cat



learned of domestic ways

interruptions



lust or lucent tirades

dust or mucous soul

open trusty byways

lucent, mucous soul



open, soaking highways



so many ruined nights

Work Is A Food



A most open vessel

take a seat

on the galley



and row

with the rhythm

of tolling



latent bells

holding

and wishing



for the tolling

buoy bell

riding



upon green waves

portendent

of wholesome



allowances

hell on it. poetry blog. & etc.

This blog is in the midst of psychic overhaul. More to follow.