Looking for..

I am far too stupid to know what type of woman I’d like to date,
and not dumb enough to suggest that I know what my type is.
It’s hard to pinpoint if  an artsy or an outdoorsy girl,
or maybe a bookworm, would be better to have weeping at the station as my train pulls away.
It is hard to know how many tattoos is the right amount of tattoos, or if
a cat person or a dog person would be better suited to comfort me when,
after a long and brutal battle, the cancer wins at last. I don’t know which
sign I am compatible with, or what the habits of a psychopath are, and I
don’t know which shows they’re supposed to like, and I’m not sure
if any of it matters at all, but I certainly
can’t imagine a world where I never quite find out.

Hogstooth

It’s lodged somewhere in my brain, the bullet that will kill me,
for it entered my skull eleven years ago, and has been digging slowly
through the thoughtful mush. I often wonder when
it will explode through the back of my head, bursting
like a leaden butterfly from a hard cocoon. I do not know.
I remember when I fired the bullet that will kill me,
just a boy of sixteen, aiming his rifle in every wrong direction,
and I know that it was the wrong thing to do, but you cannot
un-fire the bullet that will kill you. I can’t live forever. But as
long as I’ve got this bullet stuck somewhere in my head
like a plow in mud,
none of you can kill me.

fawn

stand on your legs when you might be ready,
you won’t be sure, you won’t be steady,
it might take some time,
but hop along just fine,
just fine

wobble at first down the beaten trail,
follow close to your momma’s tail
feel that soft fur on your face
bed down in the safest place,
knowing you’ll get along just fine,
just fine, indeed.

eat the berries from the bushes
chew the bugs, graze the rushes,
take the whole world in, all is young,
as young as you, and all was made
for you, made just fine.

 

 

Dreaming . . .

I am whole only in my dreams,
the missing limbs restored, the
faulty netting patched. I can see
down through my self, miles wide
and inches deep, and into the secret
abyss untouched by probing questions.
I can see the swollen, pulsing corals
in the darkness, the questions growing
larger every year, the lazing lyrics and
thin-fanged doubts in the darkness.
And there are things, there, that
even I do not know the names of.
Things that lurk in every shaded soul,
things that are monstrous and human.
And I look to them, and realize, I am
whole only in my dreams.

Hit Me

“Hit me! With your car!” he screamed,
spit flying from a beard with teeth,
as the olive-green Pinto inched from a stop
and his hands beat craters into the hood
like ancient and thick-veined meteors.
“You bitch! You bitch!” He screamed,
as her hands reflexively moved to reverse,
“You bitch! Hit me with your car!”,
and the men on the sidewalk moved by,
quietly.

Changing Terrain

The hunters and farmhands know our pattern well:
The crack of branches beneath the snow,
Shadows slipping across icy pines,
the wind howling down the field, and
breaking upon the treeline.
We go, a cautious approach, and then

The pause.
A deathly moment – Is there a smell
on the wind? A change
In the light? Do tails flick
For reason, or for habit?
This is the moment-
The sights lined up with our hearts-
The moment where we decide
to retreat,
or charge.