anarchominimal

Dependent Lividity

This one got caught in the back of my throat, tonight,

so forgive me

for being so speechless, 

I had poetry to attend to.

And they come along, 

when you’re really, 

really, 

supposed to be doing something else. 

I tried to smoke him out but he dug deeper, 

and because I was drinking, 

he slipped down, 

down into that space, 

that’s when I learned he, well, was a “he”

because he was so damn cruel from right there. 

There were all the rocks that needed to be moved, 

the timber from one state to the next, 

and I seemed to manage

to choke again

and again

I couldn’t even sweep the deck. 

What a pity, you fucker, 

you fucker with drink to drink and smoke to smoke. 

“Couldn’t sweep the deck”. 

Sob story asshole. 

Get out there and take that world of yours back! 

Forgive me, 

but I have poetry to attend to,

and there’s something, 

in the back 

of my

throat. 

From The Ground Up

Baby, I’m throwin’ out this bathwater for you.

It was just cold enough today, after the snow had melted and I took a walk. 

My hands were cold, and about fifteen minutes after I’d thrown my 

cigarettes into the garbage, 

my balls started hurting, just a little. 

About five minutes before, I was thinking about the phrase

“From The Ground Up”. 

I thought about a year of healing, of dreaming and deeming 

the link between body and planet inseparable.

I thought about editing and laughed out loud. 

I thought about destruction, creation, and the oft forgetten

maintenance of self.

Of running to the park, 

running today so I can run around with my kids tomorrow, 

run around with your kids, and teach them to dodge cops, 

eat healthy with your kids, and teach them stewardship, 

plagiarize for your kids, and call it a little magic, 

Biting cold keeps me awake and heat keeps me loose. 

It was so wonderful when the snow was melting in the valley but still on the mountain. 

I thought about building from the ground up,

Baby, I’m throwing out this bathwater for you. 

I’ll put some straw and photographs in the tub, soil in the sink, 

and we can clean up together, and settle down

just a little. 

Samba

Adidas and shoes named on a Brazilian dance, 

the weight of choosing a name for children, 

products, 

I greased the shoes after I found them in a thrift store. 

Semi-corporate Dada, 

Shoes wrapped around sandal feet for the coming rains. 

More commas than Faulkner, this must be a disease. 

Marcel accepted your friend request. 

The baristas are younger than you now, 

The shelf life of the song on the radio and your biology textbook, 

and all these instruments for your enhanced understanding, 

and fluid uptake, 

participants in the destruction of your only cathedrals, 

which you can now purchase for viewing

on Blu-ray and HD. 

Shaky Hands #2

There are nights, 

too much coffee smoke stains the light. 

Back porch conversations with the one and only, 

your conviction. A rough hand on your shoulder. 

Your mother and father seek truth, they raised you, 

to be a truth so you search

through reams and codes and boiled down manuals on

a truth you know will be in

your actions. 

You want your children to be able to breathe the air and drink the water, 

and you want the beautiful children of your friends, 

who are in love, 

to be able to breathe the air, 

and drink the water. 

To remember, that when your mother, and my mother,

was being scalped

we took the hand, brought it down to the table, drove the knife 

into the wood. 

Stitched her flesh back to her skull as best we knew how.

She was, is, so beautiful. Scarred as she is. 

Face bucked and fluids scented with oil. 

Her flesh still thimbleberry. 

Her ears still ringing with car alarms, two cycle engines, 

and the birds that mimic them. 

On back porch night, where I speak with conviction, 

I make excuses, and I set timelines, and I speak only to myself, 

and I delay a future so inevitable I can see, 

letters, 

my father and mother growing older, 

my sister having children, 

I see these things before they happen just in case I cannot be there,

when they happen. 

I can still breathe the air and drink the water, 

My sister can still breathe the air and drink the water, 

As long as I can breathe the air, 

and drink the water, 

I can fight. 

Shaking Hands #1

There’s something to 

washing dishes, 

sorting through thrift store small treasures,

felling diseased trees, 

global climate change, 

the smell of meat, 

sorting through diseased trees, 

the smell of small thrift store treasures, 

washing global climate change, 

that makes one very nervous. 

There aren’t any frogs in the backyard anymore. 

I used to catch frogs in the backyard, 

before washing dishes, 

under the diseased trees. 

Industry

What is industry without metal, smoke, steam?

I am looking for human muscle, tolerance of repetition, 

meditation at work.

Not in Zen, for there are expectations, 

of risk, a child someday, 

who will inherit

all your things of metal

your knife

your spite, 

your kindness. 

The Comfort of Earth and Small Grasshoppers

Poetry for a price for my lines, 

scattered between several manuals of my existence.

Purification=Narcisissm, 

Communion is a better way of looking at it, 

placing the images of animals on sweatshop shoes, 

neurosis, 

Music to fill every gap, no more silence, 

neurosis, 

Famine and Diane DiPrima. 

Passionatomic (W.Hough)

The cat shies away from the smell, 

the sentence digs into the page, resisting revision,

How can I make something beautiful that will feed people?

How do you feed people is an education that we shall

revisit, 

resist, 

revise, 

peril is a beautiful rare word like a gem offering more exact expression. 

Frothing Mouth

More resilience in a diverse portfolio.

Poetry fighting pollution in the form 

of Haibun, scribbled on the nibs of rolling papers, 

burned one by one like prayers, 

where one half falls to the earth, 

and one half folds weightless to the wind. 

Diverse portfolio of prayer, 

means someone is more likely 

to listen.