No Mas

Tonight, the Latino grill man sings Kumbaya
while he slops together another hamburger,
as though his singing will rouse God
from his day off and come rescue him…

His faith doesn’t care for history
of field hand strung to trees of the past.
Especially in this town, where the locals
look at him with contempt because
all the plant workers names
end in Gonzales or Hernandez.

And he can’t help it if he knows Spanish
because Mama wanted him to remember
where he came from. Mama who knew
America for its HMO’s and not for homeboys
who’d sit on their porches and watch her pull

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In Search Of Dog (an Eclectic Journal: Long)

May 9, 2002–Springfield, MO

On the 157, 643, 241, 708th day Dog created me–and he thought it might have been a waste of his time.

11:49 pm

Dropped CM off at his place about 20 mins ago. Beginning to wonder how many people think I’m homosexual. I tend to have more guy friends I hang out with, and more female friends I consult with, but I am really good in bed…(I am an egotist!)…or does that mean something else.

Sign says: watch for backing cars

I went to punch it on Grand at the Jefferson intersection, and the auto-clutch stalled. Upset. Still loaded on caffeine from the Mud House, no sleep tonight, acute insomnia.

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Beauty Of Simple Things

(The Poem of Our Lives)

If we were to walk
down a deserted road
in autumn, I would not
point out the foliage,
nor mention the clouds
or how the breeze
meanders along.

Instead, I would find
a felled tree and count
the concentric rings
encompassing the stump;
remarking on how
a year’s growth had been
by the width of the band.

Then I would look up
and ask: why don’t we
recycle the paper we use
to draft the poems
of our lives?
or burn all of our money
and move to Tibet?

After this thinking
had exhausted us,
we would lay down
and not speak.
Imagine how the other

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Cacophony Of Voices

My room is an abyss
windows blackened
with construction paper.

I lie alone, awaiting
enlightenment, incense
burning sickly sweet.

Apparitions of people
appear, examine me
with physician eyes,
determine the dimensions
of my dementia.

I do not see them.
Instead, they chatter
while they work
their of voices
blistering my brain.

The process is slow,
but eventually I will
tear the covering
from my windows,
flood the room with light,
and become invisible.

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Four Views Of Allen Lake

This is no hallow place
it is pasture land and that is all.
Why do I find myself at it
in times of trial?
And have since November ‘97
10:00 pm–20 degrees
steam rising in phantom sheets
off the hood of my car.
Even when I am nowhere near
I still find myself drawn here,
always with the same question…

****

I walk the gravel trail
adjacent to the water’s edge
noticing the broken beer bottles
and charred remains
of a previous night’s exuberance.
A five-leafed marijuana plant
spotlighted in the moonlight
makes me laugh. It is no weed.
More likely the remnants
of someone’s cheap bag–

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Inside-out

From the outside
looking in

this appears
to be a normal place,
but nothing is
normal about it.

Objects move,
telekinesis
and philosophers
feverously grind words
to their nubs.

How much a ticket?
how long a ride?
do not ask these questions.
Save your money
for the cinema;

you would not
like it here. Stand back
telescoping the madness
that takes place–

for there are those
who, once walking on water
never again touch dry land.

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