the 2000 presidential election

i don't know why the cars across
west grandview sound different this

morning,
rained earlier in the night, & dawn

is gray like ruffled dead skin
washed against shores of meek bones.

hair a light streaming from headlights
lemon light

& old crow on the roof -- watching
that lemon light

the old crow caws loud above my
head

i feel the caw of the crow
erupting

thru my own throat. a certain split
since the cars seem longer

& they echo sliding as crows caw on the roof

in trees
above wet november erie. i think most

amerikan citizens
are retarded.

---

so how is yr life

we have just this bit of time of human con-
sciousness, our mind is simply a bit of the
total human earth mind. this flesh & this
bone a bit of life's biological body amidst
physics. say spirit if you want,
or soul, or life-force, the inside you,
but that's all dream.
hallucination. repeat after me.
hallucination. echo
of dumb cave clan. nope,
nothing more than illusion
& delusion & peyote
& whole bunches of history.

forget it.
make yr self spin
fast & furious,
& flap yr arms,
fly.

oh, one can't
fly by flapping one's arms?

how much money do you have?

---

fry day

snow, goddamn squalls sliding
home from work -- heavy slushy snow
in very gray dawn. i'm working
overtime again tonight
so money is pouring from my asss,
literally: colonoscopy after insurance
cost me one hundred & seventy five dollars,
my 20% responsible. but it's
paid, in full, & i'm clean of polyps,
which can't be bad,
tho my belly is a sort of ball now
gaining weight after cigarette cessation.
over three bucks a pack
is pretty ridiculous,
smokers, & that price will
always rise.
nicotine'd blood
in nicotine'd brain
& addiction
is costly
& deadly, especially for us
old poets
who thrive on multitudes
of addictions -- oh christ,
i'm not admitting
to nothing
you bastards.
in that great
film "american beauty"
the 2,000 dollar pot
creates special
intensity
for instance.
i think cigarette
smokers shld quit
& smoke pot
& watch
good
videos
on a snowy
friday
morning
what
a simple
lovely formula for love

---

football

o gentle poetry readers of amerika
with yr soft vices & r-rated dreams
i'm like this gas-station guy
with dirty hair & a hard-on & a
nicotine-filmy, fly-shatt'd,
hanger-antenna'd, beat-up tv
up by some yellowish cans of oil
oh christ & i've farted
the steelers
game is on pretty soon
oh gentle readers of
poetry
who ain't ever
been illiterate
in a rural
gas-station with a tinny tv on
ready to watch
some football

---

slamming in my head

3 years ago the first of november
alone in a wrecked house with a 30-year mortgage
just me & the dog
photographs of my kids
no car
about to get financially sodomized
with water-line breaking under
the front-yard pine-tree
simultaneous disasters
occuring hourly, my life
thru a rusty
meat-grinder
horror
guzzling on a half-gallon of jim beam
just to
sleep a little
gabriele
talked me down to a semblance of sanity
this is when i met
mcneilley online
he came
to my rescue
then ann
phoned
& the memory
of that initial november
3 years ago
won't ever leave me

---

continued: continued
for bill beaver

bill
is a geologic
beaver
a cosmological
beaver of leg-thin
celestial material

bill has had his share
of jokes poking his
last name
he is tailed by past
mud tappings of
repair

he is sleekest
in dark waters of
south western amerikan
air
he is like an otter
that perfect, & fast

& spinning

---

where did i read

that zen is hiking with a friend
thru north carolina mountains today
otherwise working 14 hour days
saving for airfare from north
carolina to british colombia:
like british colombia to
new zealand to iceland
to the tip of south
amerika
the very word: amerika
so zen is hiking
maybe eating ecstacy
or tiny sacs of
autumn lilac
with the face of a
45 year old
zen
i think my face has aged
the most of anyone's
face -- nimmo just went full bald
& he had bags under his dark eyes
when he was 18
the nimmo is not hiking today i'll
bet
filipski is driving a ford escort
from erie to florida
today
miner is meeting filipski in florida
wednesday
cait might be in new joisey
or philly
or l.a.
or florida
or amidst the blue gases of neptune
jazz is surely
smoking a cigarette
& do not be alarmed i am
NOT making a judgement
about nicotine addiction
in tennessee
pang of sudden apprehension
mish's sons might
steam-roller over her soon
before zen gets there
or even then
elaine is wearing pink
socks
the pink telephone
rings
& it is the new mexico state
police
wanting her monetary donation
she does not
give
but almost
haze
is not hazy
not lazy
not crazy
today
but someday
in the hills of
tennessee
sipping white
lightning
might
be
one
of
the
above
things
mark
is a
noble
man
but is not
a light verse poet
his soul is a
raging
sun
& there is passion
& shit
& cunt
& buddhist awareness
who i have
not included
amidst these pressure
pressers
i apologize i cld
continue
like for
bart:
steeler's play
in an hour
maybe bart is tail-gating
at 3 rivers stadium
this very moment
guzzling morning-tapped
rolling rock
beer on a cloudy
sunday in october
& mcneilley,
everyone knows,
is smiling

---

3 things

equating the cunt & face
& soul, equalling cunt
& face & soul of
the woman one loves as
lover
as other you
as you who have unremembered events
happening in strings of
coiled moments
whoosh of life
sound of breath
wind
water
this is earth
this is biology
this is spiritual tension

---

another day in paradise

no overtime tonight
for me. pizza
& beer ann's picking
up after a salvation
army job interview on
peach. lance
is supposed to stop
with a movie we'll
tape, & between the film
("i don't know if you guys
like violent english humor...")
& lance's deep dream-voice of
dream,
i won't be thinking
about work.
i hope not.
i won't be writing a poem
about inane people
& the sly bosses who
pit fool against fool
for production gains
no matter retarded chimpanzees
smile & whistle while they work.
no, i won't be writing about work.
i'll be watching an english
version of "reservoir dogs"
listening to lance's dream-weaver
stories, & i'll be throwing my
big hairy head back
throwing beer down my gullet,
chewing on pizza...

---

same old poem

it's saturday morning. early
early, & the coffee has gurgled
a full pot in the kitchen.
i'm rising to pour a cup

leaving you in that space there.
i don't have a goddamn thing to
tell anyone. those i love
know i love them,

those i think as slaughtered slugs
realize i view them as
such. the silence is the sound of
this dark dawn -- that car's growl,

the rattle of our furnace,
gusting heat; my little sniffles,
weird wormy noises
slither thru my tummy.

so i'm a piece of meat,
a strip of marbled beef,
a split-open side of swine
with words coming out of my head.

big
stupid
deal,
anyways.

---

saying nothing

oh christ, you'd think there was an issue
i want to expound. the state of poetry
in amerika? i don't goddamn care about that.

illiteracy? so what? humans
are half beast, so why not
illiteracy? natural, unbarred illiteracy,
feathers growing out of skin instead of

hair, yes, primtive eyes in dawn autumn trees
instead of dream-book enticement --
eat the paper, tell the starving.