..

“Coco Gauff Commandeers My Music Collection”

I have reason to believe that Gauff has hijacked my iPod shuffle

In the last 48 hours

Because she’s laid her head to rest —

She’s snoozing off to the left

On a sun-lit, screened-in porch,

Laughing at her Charlie Horses

And puerile taste in liquor

And swimming in the muck

Of America, of

Gawkers complimenting her new woman’s shape.

“How to Not Cross Your Own Moat”

He sits atop a land mine

That is his castle

And

I know

That castle is his jail

Because

.

I constantly

Hear his snips —

Now he wants to

Fight, now

He wants to buy,

And it was never

Enough and

Tonight

.

When I retire to bed

My blood will be

The same color as his

Apologizing for itself and

Swimming beside kitten’s fur.

“Solidarity”

When people are happy in my town it’s like a found art object. One example would be the two liquor store clerks talking about STD’s. I said it was like something out of the movie Clerks. They asked me if I’d ever had an STD. I said no and that I even went to IU so that meant I’d been extra lucky and my guardian angel had been watching me. They accepted everything I said with this steady, semi-oblivious, slightly passive-aggressive element of disregard. The fat dude who was talking a lot would never laugh, but only offer, in jovial but finally indolent disposition, more anecdotes, like “I thought I had an STD but it turns out she just ruptured a blood vessel in my penis.” I loved how he blamed her. So authentic. The other guy only talked when he was spoken to, pretty much. They made the perfect work pair. I started bounding out, having declined a receipt and exchanged no more words with either of the two. It was a Saturday night at about 9:30 in early August, temperate and raining. As I was walking out, I heard the talking dude say something about how there’s a tube from the testes to the penis and his friend got his injured. The more you know, I thought. I got in my car, cracked a Summer Shandy, started driving home and just letting it all sink in. Tomorrow it would be back to sports, tattoos and Magic the Gathering, I figured. I mean, it’s only so often you get two guys alone in a liquor store at 9:30 on a rainy night in August.

“Animation Protein”

So is there someone

Up in the sky

Who, like,

Consciously writes all our dreams every night?

.

That would be a funny job —

Like a cross between

A news reporter

And a

Saturday Night Live hawker.

“Juneteenth”

As a bi-product

Of

.

Some strange

Inclination in my heart

To live my life

.

I search for information on Juneteenth

And I can feel the eyes on me

And they are dark,

Cold and dead,

And

.

They are

Posing

As

.

A conduit

Spotlighting a gluttonous bigot.

.

I wanted Juneteenth to be mine too and

They hate that.

“Love Story”

 

It’s Memorial Day Sunday,

I glide back into town

From Red Bud Trail

And the bypass.

.

I’m filling gas and

Next to me

I notice a woman who

Seems kind of

Eclectic and lively, like

Someone who would be

Really into cats

Or maybe Van Gogh.

.

Ok, that’s a stretch.

.

Cats and plants.

.

She is regardless

Accompanying a man who’s

Riding a motorcycle and

Who strikes me generally,

Sidelong,

As big, ugly and angry.

.

Eventually

After the man administers

Various mannerisms and gesticulations

Which somewhat resemble epileptic seizures,

.

The two get on the bike and start to ride away.

.

The weather is perfect

And I’m a near-immaculate mood

So when I almost cut them off

While leaving,

I give a very polite

Smile and wave, letting them go.

.

The fu**ing bastard doesn’t even

Smile or wave as, staring at me

In ugly clothes, an ugly face and

A loud, obnoxious vehicle,

They ride off.

 

The next Sunday I’m in Big Lots

And there’s a couple next to me.

.

I’m pretty accustomed to just keeping my

Head down around people

But this guy is like

Jerking his arms up and down

Like a crackhead

And lunging to and fro,

To the point where

.

I find myself trying to stare him down,

And then I kind of just feel bad,

Because I know how people are

(I especially know how this dude is).

.

He goes to church and

Gets a new truck to polish

Every year and now

We’re all going to hear about it,

Whether he tells us or not.

.

And he’s convulsing and

Lunging around, in

Big Lots, rather like

A dog would, sending

My blood pressure up and

My level of interest down

And there’s the woman,

Rewarding the ape-like

Disposition like some

Paradigmatic swatch of

Universal law that is

The only thing that could have

Created Taylor Swift.

.

And I just put my head down

And walk out and

Try not to care about

The pervasive devolution movement

Prevalent in our culture

And I don’t.

“The Essence of Life”

I thought of emptying fluid

Into a particular woman

Who has electric blond hair

And a slender neck, large

Witch’s nose. I thought

Of us smiling, under

The myth of romantic

Love, under

The

Myth of success,

Happiness, and

I thought

Of the essence of

Creation. Are we

Subservient

To something?

Is there something

More, off in

The distant celestial

heavens? On

Earth, dark eyes

Spite and dark eyes

Cower and

Dark eyes elaborate

Machinery for

Separation

From the selfsame and

One shot of light

And one shot

Of a woman’s neck

Is terrific

At masking

Such things.

“Whiskers”

I noticed the suicide watch post at the university and I signed up. It was to make up to $225. That seemed like good money and I’ve been going through it. I filled out the survey, with my phone number, e-mail address and all that good stuff we know and hate. And I got all ready, mentally, to go in and sit with a person, at Notre Dame, and talk about my suicidal thoughts. And I hit “submit.” And then I went back on Facebook. And I saw this black and white cat. And I couldn’t stop staring at that cat and how cool it looked. It had these long, white whiskers that reminded me of the glaze on a donut, that reminded me of the fluorescent lights you see when you’re in the back seat of your parents’ car and you’re pulling into a city, and they’re nervous about seeing their parents and in-laws. Everything is still and you behold the beauty of our Apollonian creations, or of a cat, and their Zen Buddhist lack of desire. And then, after thinking of all this, I caught a look of myself in a mirror. And I was glad I had a beard. I was glad of that. And I was glad of everything. And I thought, I better skip the suicide trip, and the Notre Dame trip, too, while I’m at it. I mean, I don’t want ’em getting any ideas.

“Worm Moon”

The Buddha is crying.

The flag is cold and shivering.

Our atmosphere is wilting.

.

LA is poised to drown,

The tide tickling the

“Hollywood” sign

On the side of the mountain.

.

I went downtown today

And heard a homeless dude uttering

Threats, I saw an old lady

In entropy, and I

Averted eye contact

.

In my hometown, to

Retire home for reading and

Hearing about a murder

In front of the new breakfast diner.

.

People have spoken in hate

And on this worm moon

I am choosing my battles and

Cursing the extolled man in the sky

Who bestowed uniformity and logic

On a fiery pinochle den.

“The Chicken or the Egg”

Sometimes, sitting in my hometown, in the backyard of where I lived with my mom, I’d get this electric vibe. And I just knew it was it. The lawns were all landscaped beautifully, flanked with colorful, aromatic gardens, the high school down the street procured spirited, energetic (sometimes violent) adolescents and that gas station two blocks down sold Donut Stix for $.75. The contour of my mind was completed by a rhythm from without — meditation took a back seat to aural absorption.

And it threw all kinds at you. At this one job there was this ex-junkie. And it’s going fine, going fine, continually, and then things just blow up. There’s a sautee pan slammed into the bus tub at 100 decibels. There’s the declaration that, upon cooking a burger for oneself, “I’m gonna have a hell of a time shitting this thing out!”

And then there were just the little moments that were supposed to be good. And yes, I have to admit, sometimes I know that I was raised by a pretty good mom. I can, that is, just let go, sometimes. And shit, I get it too. My mind races through everything. I have a fear of abandonment because I’ve BEEN abandoned. My mind races to murder. It races to brutality, the machine, wheels churning, homelessness, treachery and suicide. And then I turn the page. A new day begins. Maybe my “self” is more fully formed or maybe I just never fully became myself, kept part of my ambitions wrapped up in that colorful shrubbery I swear I saw when I was 17, outside of the movie theater, tripping on shrooms.