Acidmind; un céleri

craned unnaturally, finally
relaxing my neck
now understanding,
the spread like black-brown blotches
of last week's spent coffee grounds
staring the snowmelt,

I'll probably always chop celery wrong.

Blades of Glass

Contemplating the blade of grass
grown and growing,
sssSprouted neatly        
-pressed as
glass through uncareful fingertips-
into last years nerves
with patient indifference, endurance
beyond determination, a walnut left unturned
among clumps of green and growing bound
             ... and kissed, she tells me,
by that same strange-perfumed air blown from some great place
that now leaves something of herself on me.

And in this way we've given ourselves to eachother,
& also to the murmuration of starling
grazing mad anarchy, through blades of grass
     ... and something as aimless as
linear time, or,
the spring-fit giggles of,
teenage girls-     still bound
memories flooding and swelling at the scent of those.
first. few. puffs,
acrid.
(or soggy winter acorns seen as such)

to be in it... and to know it,

at the first sight of hyacinths, daffodils
... a man, woman and dog
- all distinctly American,
but the dog-
binging on sun like everything else,
unaware or distracted
- the birds punctuate invisible through all -
and her heat needs me to feel it.

in spring, we are.

Something About Soul (for Alice Coltrane)

It hangs^
The way they spoke of her hair
some 20 odd years long,
still not yet stale.

I heard she was a mad woman
in that cool, blue-thang kinda way.

I've heard of her husband...
She does not care

Or would not, I don't know her.

Oh, and I heard she was from Detroit.
Now that I believe

... Woodward in the low, fickle winter sun
Not ash,
Or burgundy,
smoke from burning houses where the help don't come
or chartreuse-

In harmony with all that jive,
but funny She don't sound like It.

They told me she played church music,
Reel religiouslike
simple understanding,
"grace"

Tran(sc)e-ndence

But the explanation,
where words fail to
form tones of celestial divinity
bound by cycle-
hangs.

I heard
She was gifted in her own right.
Found a way to-
give off light,
I cried to myself
choking down coffee and cold hashbrowns.

... And believed again,
the idea that

the Prodigal son had a mother.

And of-
warm blacktop daze
in our cars
in church parkinglots-

... And not quite 20 years ago I was put back into that cold water.
And didn't they know that I thought that was weird?!

.

..

....
..........
..................

-... .- .--. - .. ... -- / .. ... / .-- . .. .-. -..


 ...?

.

They don't really care what I think either.
~ That's what they tell me anyway,

I heard she was crazy.

911 Wealthy

The taste of water,
or,
the color behind
when eyes closed

The scent of a
cluttered home
A place we rent quiet

Emotional traumas,
or,
lived-in fabrications of
Love

A locked box
with contents known
of angles and tones

Slap back ping pong,
or,
earth life indoors
tended as a ruler

Burned as sage
in the ceremony
in vulgar pottery

Drunk; 31 + 1 (Handwriting is important)

I know you won't come to the door
-when
-when I'm frum
-when I'm fumbl for my keys
                fumbelin
               (fumbeling)
            (losing sight of)

If you're hung over

("Be my little Baby")
              -the Ronettes













I don't mind.
Sleep n as long as you like

I
   will make you mashed potateoes

And not think too much about it

And cry because I'm happy


-and the snow plow outside
grinding deep


The investments I made in myself
-payin' off

It's embarrassingly hard to cope with
   Knowing you with


Tears on my Grandfather's shirt                
                                           shirt
                                       sweater

Intune with the Bar

The godless find Salvation
     in community outside of dogma
In things they put faith in
and take for granted
-find time to leave
create New Years Resolutions 'round
and borrow pens and napkins for
Intimate books in a tome
understood the same way
as Holy.

Summer Dust #2

Slow glow-ed, Summer dust, heavy loads
on the horizon;
Shaky
I sat in tall field grass, dry dry heat in blades,
in a season-worn, stomp-flattened church park;
Lutheran.
Thinking on heat and sin, sub-suburban housing developments where sad girls play ugly music and wonder about sex.

Golden, Black, Blue-green and iridescent insects hum,
zzzzzseeeether and ClicK in open cycle- harmony, dis, and back-
eat and fuck and don't think too much about either.

Smelling phantom spring, long'go baked- Slow
cooked with potatoes, cabbage, garlic, rosemary and petrichor.

"... and how distant the past feels," I felt.
".... how mythical the inventions,"
"..... how unrivaled the events, how beautiful the snow flake formations," fleeting.


and I sat, Shaking, ready to vomit,
in the church park.
Feeling cheated and grateful,
feeling like a child.
Breathing hot air, I Threw my shoes as far as I could
and thought of the worse word I could speak,
Then I grew up.