Some recent latte art

Magnificent Sanctuary

on the first of the month I speak rabbit rabbit rabbit

like morning prayer for

good luck like foot-rot soft-toe found in a jacket pocket

three months into the coldest winter feeling

the fur lining the soft webbing of my fingers

colder than could be remembered after a great highway sign

journey out of a desert snow fall dusting the dark blue

paint job on cold steel

missing the heat missing her with flowers

in hair spreading legs one arm brushing across

the inside of a milky thigh feeling the wet

that drips from the softness under a breast

circular fan rustling the loosest cotton this side of a railroad

track monsoon song heard rolling towards

the mesas the sand dunes la playa

and douglas firs sahuaro to sequoias

we found you crouched in the holler suckling the tits

of magnificent sanctuary

knotting pieces of widows hair like steel wool

‘round a flat head screwdriver

tears running the makeup over fattened cheeks

tears flowing like rosary beads a jesus at half mast

there for you cause jesus will be there for you

like he was extending a hand smashed in the tin press

saying believe in me I’ll hold your sanctity

in crippled palm believe in me the white sands

protect a moon bleeding the fates

we’ve thrown into harrow basins a tar baby in the rattlesnake pit

believe in me because I am a dream

put down like lame horses

saddle-sore saddle stitched mouth shut

buried next to those runners of the blue grass

toe-up hooves cut off cast in bronze

with death walking the sunset home I am a dream

like oxygen

like dead rabbits like busted blood vessels

in your mother’s eye believe in me

I’ll teach you superstitions

carry limp bodies to Multnomah Falls

dangle them like worm-on-hook

near the breakwaters and fall asleep

to the prayers for forgiveness 

So far untitled...

The maudlin minstrels

crying from debtor’s pain

play witness to my day to day…

 

leave me in need of punctuated

remarks while, “Where’s

your motorcycle, James” takes swing

 

at my face. A summary of “fakin”

in a balls deep discovery

that April 7, 2007 ruined

 

the lessons only a father could teach.

My father in the mental ward.

 

Dear Ted, my guts are dying

                                                it’s 5:15 am

 

The turn table plays broken air brakes

cans wane haunted, erudite

Some molded beans, a refrigerator

 

eaten to death. Recycling of two wristbands

boxes of condoms from his nightlife

star-stripped desire floating on misty ceiling:

 

a backseat driver on a tandem bike.

The discovery deep in pale green light

like hands larger than face,

 

then accusations of tennis to be played.

“I’ll tell you where you got yo shoes!”

like hands larger than face, pale

 

propping green couch atop trashcans,

haunted by boxes of condoms and beans,

green from the mold.

 

A poem lost in thought, banded

from Chinatown ring wavering in tenancy

turning finger green with its metal, cheap.