Poems without a title

&

Here comes the screen to free

a wingspan wide enough to reach

me in Nebraska.

But with all that great falling in

Your thicket of fading jay’s

and distance

where’s the calm?

You thought to think

 anything unmade doesn’t harm

 but what have all

 your unmade bricks made for you?

‘A wasting’.

 The sound of Oklahoma

unshapes its face

and sheds

So dirt is held down barely.

A few black clouds raining age cover

the slim distance between

 the whole earth and Gold

 the only color.

&

My skins a shade today

A halved sadness.

A displaced gray and white

 Turning mud to muscle

 And bone also

It turns

 to wood

to clay

to a vase of ate foliage

and then to I don’t know

rage I guess.

&

You hold it.

Then you hold it

and then you hold it

and you hold it and

I never hold it.

I have nothing but my hands.

This collapsing.

I do love you Russell

Your endless engine. Your shifting windows

Wet from the road with your half man

half kicked to the mud under the hoof stomp

of the whole godddaamn hemisphere face.

We are the least difficult of men. All we want is boundless 3s!

And rings

&

Fuck the world

there’s a headache to swallow

and this beard will smear

the entire unfurnished plainness of May away with a kiss.

I put my mouth where I can see it.

a rack of teeth’s

an animal’s landscape

where I stuck a deaf song to whistle  away the weeks

I wake to what I meant

In some unused way

With all these muscle of endless edge

unmanned unmyself

I lift up my hands.

I will leave this place

Hawk my hair

And respond to God: The Sixth man of the year.