dirigible

don't grow cold
don't go far
filling the chalkboard
with language and signs
please, don't call me
when you've fallen
finding the chill
unbearable in autumn
offer me
your hand
as I rise
I saw
your strength
when you believed
in mine

skyweed

grey crepe
strung across
my loss
like a limp
squid
like floss
that's been spent
with bits of bread
sullied and soggy
chewed and screwed
between my monstrous
teeth, on the floor now
waiting for broom and pan
or another cold front
to turn that grey skyweed
into cleaning solution
el sangre de Cristo
has nothing on the rain
the weather throwing down
its gentle complaint

first nightwalk

crossing the bridge
over the Rocky River
home is not an idea any longer
it is a place, with chairs
a lamp, a bed, a kitchen table
and little else
a spontaneous puja
that accumulates trinkets
as I unpack
finally, home is a form
I pranam to

the sun is setting
the sky is cloud-laden
grey, grave and gauze
with blue and red spiking through

this is a clusterfuck of wonder
an upturned catastrophe
whose rear end wags at the coming stars
a new depression averted
gladness, as sincere as it is actual
tasted, devoured, relished

Dewey's Pizza: play list

Bob Dylan's "Tangled Up in Blue"
"I can't stand it", sings Jeff Tweedy of Wilco
and John Lennon's "Whatever Gets You Through the Night"
remind me that we can't all be breastfeed to sleep
by the milk of the Divine Mother
("your prayers will never be answered again")
not every night
not every life that sees us
impossible in our treachery
tender in our war-honed
misgivings

how many books?

how many pieces of literature
does it take
to hold my attention
in the cafe
one might say
I can't concentrate
can only multi-task
monopolize
masturbate
slave to no one
sell out to some
more than my dreams
less than their sum

the one I am writing

the one I am writing
is always better
than the one before
always better
when Dennis Kucinich
is in the cafe
or maybe
it's the presence
of his lovely wife
that makes it that way
towering, with long, red hair
simple blue and white
tight dress
step on me
or maybe it's because
I am no longer fettered
by the false hope
that bites into the place
where my carotid pumps
imperceptible from the surface
or maybe I'm nervous
and writing is the new diaper
I wear to hold in all the crap
the pampers I present to you
with their clean white veneer