I am not Going to Listen

monday here tastes of macadam
for the good looking suicides
personal secretaries turn thier iphones
toward many virtual complaint desks
this is a spell for peace and calm
who knows a cool dip three miles up
who knows why the blue rose left
silly rhymes in the wake of modern talk
jest is the truest of proclamations
that are inventions of the obvious
when the balloon animals pop
place is what i am most sure of
in my chair waiting for the planes

This is My Rifle

those are the words that start
i should know, i was there
like adjacent souls of nonbelievers
all they can do is twitch in their shoes
foolish of unreleased summer
all night in the kitchen problem plays
under worried paper lodges
burning the best parts of the moon
when a year on the farm team
apply those fifty storytellers
to our filial connection with the stars
that are serious students of vanities
reach summits in the cabinless present
tense with jackets on cool tile floors

Midnight Dice Game Rolling

hey, thunders come on their own
despite cries involved in frog song
under mammatus involvements
this meadow is a texas arm chair
take refuge in the forth generation
like all east coast volunteers
in our true hollywood stories
it is nineteen ninety seven all over us
but then who else is left to care
forty thieves carry all tomorrow
with lonely women in race riots
counting joints on her fingers
in what cigar smoked oracles
call the one, the one with certainty

Baby Bear Blues

someone’s an interrupted account
in a big wait of the uninvited
sense in color control geography
those day job considerations
or we’d all be market analysts
so says the fifteen year mark
it’s dispatch of heavier fragments
of men who were active memory
end games for correct possession
those just molded faces that succeed
under crash of ponderosa tree waves
lifting divinations for unafraid poor
that watch the tumble weed smile
again, it laughs and topples, again

Battle I Find

older than strokes of luck
tried hands hold drum for
broken buddy through corners
it is the stop that gets to you
strikes close to breakfast together
the day we left for albuquerque
starts with the same prayer
the suck that smoke takes now
at war in the sides of the skull
down to four drawn cards
where three differently angry men
wait at the mouth of suburban waters
here, in the only brave act left
crash in the race to meet the sky