its not the empty space,
but what's left in it

if things were up to me
there would be nothing;

help me with the fury;

your color is that quiet fern
there are the animals you used to snuggle,
also a tornado shimmying ahead



when they talk about death they
dont mention how confused a fellow is,
how something tragic happens
and you feel like you should put on baggy pants
and eat an apple slice but not a donut

fold up and run with the weirdos

Don sandals and roll up my pants, walking down the path,
reflected without company in that goat’s eyes, reflected in
pools of owls that sink and expand like the moon

where I go its always raining and the heaviness slides away,
carrion red clods, an animal covered in rainy straw
motorcycle tracks, bulls pooping on the world,
water trickles starlike through it, I know how time moves

Thank you for everything you’ve given me,
Namely the alcohol and the little stool,
I’ve always wanted to be an owl of the moment
Living sedentary, more carven, a green ocean
without doom to reverse and no expectations

The more places you go, the more there is to miss,

With the owl weirdly hanging on your pipe, operating the orbs,

while we here squat in underwear and smoke

Waiting for it to get dark so we can watch tv inside,

Together we caught this black moth in the bag from our snacks

When I’m in the crows nest on the mountains

I know the days like this, or actually hours

Of each day; they pile in remorseless emerald, storming

Then the rain was coming in rifts, memory striking and setting fires,

There are many things I’ll lose and items you wont know,

Among other things, I am helpless to unclog this foreign toilet;
A green ocean, thank you for everything you've given me

Some babies were born

to grow up and operate crime rings,

all a velvet wall of smoke, piloting SUV’s through the alley

Well it’s a good thing we all can’t get a long,

there would be too goddam many of us getting along

We’ve tussled beyond the pale,

all that remains is that musician person twirling his facial hair,

and the reports that “He allegedly ‘lurched into the mist’”

Aha, to stay there forever, esconced deep in the red

of that place’s earth, south of the clouds, firing arrows at the search party,

hoarding baubles from home and cadmium rice,

Standing on the balcony of the hideout, watching lights on hotels flicker, down there

The people you love are like that, bouncing like sound in the hollows,

Even from the deepest mosses of the country, a Hong Kong is visible in the distance,
 with all of its seizing lights and single raised eyebrows; a loud place of ash and fog,
 a bunch of people living there, a place where you could probably get some weird types of fish;

Here, you could dig a hole to me, we repulse contact in the same way

In that way you go, I come running through markets;

That fever has broken again, south of here, of course I’m terrified

How foolish of my superiors to put me in a position

Where I’m expected to know whats going on at any given time,

So what it is, is that I dream of you and roam while they look on,

“Oh look at him, taller than God, surveying those ragged fruits”

They’re curious as an Einstein, in that way that you go, I come running

you can bet life is weird
weird life on a lawn mower;
mountain streams, water from the earth's center

the western parts of the new england states,
everyone we know is from the north or the east
lads, a shared memory of long hair
and smoking in the back seat with dark snow and mud
like dad sent us out into the fog
for a full tank of propane
long hair and bacne, driving past sunken islands
everything flew out like confetti and we chased it into the hills

its no joke being 400 years old
other things pre-date, bubble out from earth's center
life is hard, good god

i dont believe in cities and i get addicted to drugs in the country
well, i get addicted to drugs in the city too
but i'm scared of young professionals

these fuck boys with white hands
write poems about going into the woods
then they cry about wanting a maid
like you just call a maid to your doublewide

 'stack my poems by the bucolic props
we'll lay them out in the morning
and perhaps
a kindred soul will pass and see'


its enough to make you disrespect old guys
i drove out here and talked to a man about renting an inner tube

what he sold me was more like a firestone
but i never feel like a fool after i've been jipped
who am i to worry about $15; i partially float, sort of sink
by myself i guess, all poems should be about lads and rivers
who am i to explain drinking too much and burning easy chairs?
blissed out on this rock


























here i'm jogging, an old man with packs of young dogs
all my friends here want to do is get drunk and clap
my daughter turned into this parisian bitch

along the highway are rubber gloves, they in the slipstream;
you forget how green the world can be


i never had grandparents, i dont know old people
i remember my dad's dad wearing suspenders
uttering incomprehensibles,
he would say

'tinker to evers to chance'
and 'uno, do, tre, quattordici'

all mommies and daddies,
you really beefed it now,
here's our house on the map, and if you were a cop
nearby you would see lime green dots, glowing;
thats the little poets copping the bad guy,
the smell of plaque, the shrill horns
cutting the mountain

these guys are almost in their mid-20s
should it have gotten like better or something?

ha! like we have a reference point,
we're full of walnut shapes, riding the caboose
come through rooms into darker rooms,
we'll be in the mummy bags like a frankenstein

peeping out with the easy smile, conspiratorial
winking and walking like a spy towards doom,
walking the corpse that wears a white mask

the wind blows and what is dead falls out of the trees
why would we bother mourning,
the branches like clasped hands

crawling around in tide pools

the yellow grass where the birds live, it slices you
theres something that bugs in the air and makes me sick
the clouds swelling with the blue blood

old people echoes, things that stay in the halls
then they all seemed like where the ghosts were
i was pretty small then, walking around with a flashlight

the light shone down on the dead mice, dust winking like time
the mice are dead next to the pile of rain boots
the mice are dancing in the spotlight, shimmering brilliant

'here squirt, spondoolies for you'
'gee, 23 skidoo!'

i always wish i hadnt had
all those times of high riding,
throwing trash out of the car windows
pretending the world wasnt fragile and small;
plumes of smoke reflected in sunglasses

i about how a castle falls off the cliff
and stones go down into some waves;
i didnt have enough gas to get us home,
you're in my head, on the phone,
saying "my baby my baby"

the sun is steering slow and crazy like someone
who cant get the fog off the windshield,
hopefully no one will ever love you because you are weird, sad, or lost

they were listening to nostalgia songs in the coffee place
the bathroom smell reminded me of when i was at camp in the woods
with screen doors and moths flying in circles around a light
and the little boys have pissed on everything possible

all these troubadors gathering around a dim fire
they each wishes that they were alone, so they could dream of families
without anyone else seeing their lonely coming out between the holes,
at the very least they put their tears to good use and put out the fire

its about 4 times a year that i find myself crying,
i mix it in the recipe with the bright colors, patterns,
rain running around the pillars, chicken fights,

the steam goes rising off of the pot
and the spiders hanging on the ceiling,
all swaying a little in their houses

being stupid and having good intentions
has never done anyone much good;
to be the burden of smarter, more careful people

but i'll go by there sometime
they'll pay me,
traffic lights light up my room

and all the lads
all the lads were on tip toes wearing sleeping bags
headed for the kitchen, where the pot was steaming
each of us has our own cup, we mix the pot, yes we mix and spit

you crazy diamonds, you days, i always fall for your traps
bad things happen because i make bad decisions

 I studied joy,

But who remembers an abstract lesson

Mugginess in the day, a sun

One or two small clouds,

like stomachs drifting

a blimp is carried away;
i dont fight anymore

I ride a motorcycle around,

the street is lined with trees

on my way to you

I’m hiding a bouquet in my jacket,

So inside me are silent flowers

There is so much emptiness,

that what we have is full
i dont fight it anymore

murk

caught in the alley

wearing the long johns,

mayhew rolled the junkie

i knew theyd get me later

all the houses had crosses

i imagined their insides

hollow and rife with echo

outside holy angels

they busted me

with the whistle

the chickens 

were gold and green

pecking at my bike

it rained and rained,

my kicks blown off

"ANYBODY WHO HAS A CRUSH ON ME
IS FUCKED"


somehow there is a palm tree in the yard,
it surprised me since the yard is so small

i go to the bathroom to find what hurts
i touch all over and still cant find the wound

the neighbor keeps some dogs who always know
when a storm is coming, and they set to wailing

which means its time for me to go on a walk;
i dont have to listen to the dogs but i get wet

these dogs in the coop, i cant even see them
and still they put me out in the rain

i am sheltered under the highway,
where there is a mural and a seat

the furious rain of sub-tropic places
the grit swirling around on the road

i cant remember, but i know it is there
i've done all in my power to heal it
the cut must be real small

quits

so i am the black ship of the family,

yes i have fallen off
the other side
of a flat world

an end where the water rushes
but doesnt wake,
left as it is
for cups lost downriver;
lost to the end
of a world disproven




as long as there is,
there is frontier
a sexless bull-cow america,
rollicking distant past
the fenced part of a flat world

and i said unto my brother that I am a mouth
and i eat because my ribs furnish the boats
with cages to sail on, and over the other side

"When our beloved friend, the fine Governor of the Gret Stet of Loosiana, sent for me in his need at Mandeville, his condition had been so MISREPRESENTED that people I knew said to me, 'Don't you go up there, Joe Sims. That man is a hyena. He'll BITE YOU IN THE LAIG.' But I went. I went to Mandeville, and before I could reach my friend, the armed guard had to open TEN LOCKED DOORS, and lock each one of 'em again after us. And theah, THEAH, I found the FINE Governor, of the GRET Stet of Loosiana....without SHOES, without a sitch of CLOTHES to put awn him, without a friend to counsel with. And he was just as rational as he has ever been in his life, or as you see him here today. He said, 'JOE SIMS, WHERE THE HELL YOU BEEN?'"

say, another black t shirt

tripped in well water;
a country i lived in
because i made it

haha, walking down the street
in the small hours, tiny

full of steamed nightmare,
i pat the blind pony
and ride the iron one

when i tilt the cup
i make it sing

every cowboy brakes his arm,
falls from the horse, coughs in the dust
most dogs gets hit by the car,

how can i have done wrong,
how have i offended?
do you want to write the poem
or be sane? because

we can have it so
the sun will be there
and the world can be still
we will have all agreed;
and sitting with our heads
leaning on our shoulders
like three of them that are hanged,
we can have it that we survey,
without needing to say

did you get what you asked for?
raving in the woods,
talking at yourself with
the assurance of him who is drunk, the drunken poet
who speaks with the hundred selves,
who sways like the palms of day's last light,
who spits long strands that will not break;

he dies in a hospital far from home,
dreams are less than just dreams
they are ruiners; and you curse them

a young poet, he grew up,
he sweated in the jungle and
died paralyzed in a foreign hospital
far from home, the young poet
cried for his mamå and his old bed
and the peace that is dead leaves
blowing across the driveway

who is dead,
there is blue light from below
and no light where we are at,
being in the caverns,
i imagine that it is just like
the quiet reflection, of life
lived under the lake and among the reeds

who has died,
when and how many times?
we nail it on the signpost

it must be this current of life
that i hear so much about

respectable people come to my house,
they won't tell me what they want,
but they wait outside at all hours
so that i'm filled with doubt
and my house is not a house
but a metal boat. sinking and
echoing dully as the shots hit

when i swim in the deep water
i know what looks up from under

my belly must look whiter
than the small moon
you can sometimes see
in a dogs eye

i know that there is a snake
that would take me down

everybody knows;
thats why some people dont swim

no snake bothers me
but i know that the reeds
sleep upside down;
they spend their days thinking
of a secret that is soft and dark;
the reeds are an empty green house
where the ghost never gets upset


i'm not scared of the deep,
but being on top
of all that deep

and im scared of the reeds
and the spaces in them
where we used to live

they're riding in the back
and the dogs are in the front

when the house is burned
the chimney still stands

the trees are all november,
they look so thin in front of the sun

who forgot their damn hat,
if you are who i think you are,
life is easy;
just avoid the mirror,
and go to bed on time

the tire tracks look the same
the leaves, however, are new
and dead

let them dogs loose
let them damn dogs loose

hes on the bank

owning no boat

he painted a new name

on the old boat

theres another warrant out

who can keep track of court dates

an old lover will show up

she'll look up from below

with mermaid eyes

later she'll get you drunk

and she'll be drunk too

you'll drive home

drive on home,

feel like a rock

skipping on the road

there are some places 

that have no names

tomorrow morning

there will be a line;

a line to wait in

crossing the bridge,

you will see one white sail

between two shades of blue

union boys
werent ready

of course

the general was shot at once
the mississippi regulars
drove the bluebellies

off the cliff

they landed on the wounded
and sunk the boats

before he died,
the general said,
"one blast upon his bugle horn
were worth a thousand men"

in the summer,
a black carhartt
and long hair


the things we need,
water, a dimension
a cot, arms

raise red lantern,

it doesnt matter

if the master visits me

today, tomorrow

or never

all people
are a head
on the hydra

raise red lantern,
drain blue cup

one of the sick heads

forever sick,

raise red cup that poisons

force the rest to drink

never go into the woods

hoping to meet someone,

they'll be far out, wasted

or 'getting exercise'

never go anywhere

hoping to meet someone

i went to the top of the mountain

and took a nap

when a boring person

meets a curious person

only one of them is bored

i drive by places

where i would like to sit down

to see what was there

knowing well,

i would be bored

before the duck flew out

the duck is in the reeds

there are snakes living there

every night i dream of a duck

the duck doesnt read

it hates sunday

the duck once saw a waterskier

tangled in a family of water snakes

cafeteria

i ate ice cream
out of the dark bowl;
in my sleep,
i sweated furiously

she gives flowers
to them that smell bad

and fans herself
like shes swarmed by bugs

she taught me how
to use a sword

before the duel
she dips it in poison

she fights in the desert,
but i caught her lookin at me
in a church




"memory is an exquisite snowman, saying
i am made of the same stuff as the earth that bore me
a snowman is like a spermacetti candle
shedding tears of wax as it dies"

you bastards,
who stuck this crab
in my apple bunch

i cant pick a basket
without the skeets
taking what i earned

what i earned
god dammit


i moved my tent
closer to the woods
away from the pond

everywhere has too much meaning
if you take it in more than you should,
it could make you do rash things
in the name of the heart

here,
like every place,
where a war has been lost
is a cripple, and mean

it spends its days on the porch
shooting at stray dogs



when the cow died
i scooped it up
with the bulldozer

i drove on the road at sunset
and nobody followed behind

the cow was in the blade
its head hung loopy
like grampa's smile

its head looked down at the road
a plane was flying above us
and left a tiny puff trail


old earth,
its the flea bit dog in the space pack
it goes around the sun
it goes around the sun,
and its so damn old

the blue parts
are still healthy



when i took the cow to the hole
young boys had crowded around

they were acting simple
and crazy
their hats were backwards
also their pants

at first i was going to say

oh my god boys, get back
get the hell back

go home, take a bath
and beat the video game

but why shouldnt they watch?
i dropped the cow in the hole

then those boys
those naughty boys

they danced until
a small one
cried like a loon

as a young surfer,
i hated the french canadians

they showed up in vans
with boogie boards and flippers

my dream was bad
i rode the wave and fin sliced em
i told em to get the fuck
outta my way
with that fromagé

they kicked like guppies
in a warm bath

damn im a bad guy
damn what a bad guy

the only thing those boys had

to make the raft

were life jackets

lashed em together,

like those boys were the coaches

and they were the cheerleaders

it was night and they were drunk

the raft blew up and sent them

honking into the current;

those boys are some ducks

you can talk about the sweet river

when you stand knee deep

in a current that would gulp you down

if the water was a little deeper

the world isnt beautiful,

it doesn’t want to kill you

but if it does

it just hoots

and sways in the wind

my head knows a water moccasin

better than my feet do,

nothing wants me dead

i turn the pump on and off

and feel the water coming out,

no water can help me out but

only an idiots and sunken picnic trash

are unhappy, obscurely determined

they twitch while the water passes,

and it is unattractive to watch

my head is above the water,

but my moon is a mute child

whose mom and dad

locked it in a closet

its beautiful when those boys

swim to catch the moon,

blue feet bouncing on the riverbed,

laughing about a thing, they

essentially drown in the process

with life preservers bobbing everywhere

floating like a duck,

the moon bounces like a bug

floating downstream on its back

those boys hang onto

 the clots of trees, spluttering,

drooling indistinctly

i pictured a trailer of stallions

bouncing down a cliff

landing in the bogue chitto,

race horses

who cant think, don’t run

and chew cud at the riverbed

people are beautiful

when you’re beautiful

and those people

will demonstrate the world,

God will be there then,

In clear morning blue

With mild whisps of cloud

I waited for the farmers

To come out into the field

And find me naked in a tent,

if my knife was bigger

it would be a fair fight

there are things I have

that I cant imagine being gone

I send them downriver and

Then I bob like a blinking duck

My ducks are in a plastic bag,

heading towards the gulf

where the salt in the water 

will keep you afloat;

strange, being that the gulf

is mostly four feet deep