The tentacular roads unwind from the shed. Stars have ignited, burned, extinguished.The new minerals were explained in the evening. I was thought of as just average. Eating a cup of berries was supposed to cut down on one’s level of boredom. I ate the berries formedbymosquito bites off my ankles. The weather remained blustery. Over our city they held asheetand wrote prayers on it – for money, for hatred, for painful deaths to one’s enemies,goatswith eloquent tongues. Ohio was a long, long ways to the east, though we named ourselves Chris, The People of the Tennis Courts. This is difficult, Creature, to not be a creature. My fingers are sticky with honey. Peanuts cake the cavities of my teeth. The usualmorningusuals have been attended to, yet I’m not a freelancer. I am not a hunter of weevils andthetics are in my armpits. I give nothing useful to myself or to the hard crusts of elk curingin the spruces. Creature you would be best to leave me stuck here in Idaho with a belt through my head.
IN A MANGER
for Michael EarlCraig
Only one of us is permitted
to kneel in the sawdust.
You put the scalloped rinds
of yellow hooves in myhands.
Wind. A loose shingle clangs against
the barn’s metal siding.
It is murky and cold in the stall.
Where my forehead was, a toxic
crystal glows red. There is shelter
in working. A cavity opens into
a fortress and suddenly lemons are flopping
out like solid sunshines. You take one.
Squeeze it into our mouths –
so that we do not need to talk,
so that nothing can ever be understood or owned.
A HARD NODULE ON MY AURA
(composed somewhere in Duck Valley, 5/18/2012)
The willows by the pond
weep a soft fragrance of baby fat.
Maybe I am becoming a koot.
Another white pickup on thehighway.
It’s Mother coming again to fold
me into the sage brush branches.
In Owyhee, they name a bridge after Nietzsche.
The locals sit there and drop Wheat Thins
into the green water. An ant crawls across
my lipoma. He casts such a smallshadow.
“I’m gonna remember this for the rest of my life,”