Dogen, AL

through alabama down the hank williams trail
i am experienced by the myriad dharmas of the radio
chunk of southern guitars hot-blooded
after dirty atlanta beats 
before a mexican ballad's oasis trill
scan past the good word this sunday
we are heathen nomads
praying if you can call it that
to thick and thin layered cotton clouds
and the long, long, long sticky horizon
spinning the dial until we get off in montgomery
to go see hank's cadillac

passing lane

the stars all laid upon the road
and mirrored in the sky
with a reclining half moon
and leading down through the bible belt
and the delta
away from countless lost winters
and countless battered nights
leading me toward you
and a lone star 

a cheek full of pepitas
a mind full of songs
a heart full of wanting
time to build a life 
and not demolish one 

end of september

the 10th and 11th songs of 12
the firing range 
the billiards, endless and free
the pretty faces everywhere
the pizza and night hours wearing on
the missed moments
the backwards tumble 
down the attic stairs
the skull still intact
the country songs too early
the coffee and blocked driveway
the next day cold and gray

bulldozed

us below the line
us in the red forever
ignorant, negligent, childish
whatever you choose
we have a certain freedom
a joy of nothing left
that you can't repossess 
until we're bulldozed

elven accuracy

accuracy is what i'm after
no wasted words
no wasted moves
and no fucking wasted time

it being my lot to have
these overgrown brainparts 
these coverings
these tools and words
rather than wallow around 
the hour waning 
watching flesh sink
in the weak blue light
of the television
i want to shoot these iridescent arrows
in perfect arc 
breaking no sunbeam
as they whistle middle c
and fall finally with staccato thwack 
into the heart of complacency

but most times
my roll comes up short
on the initiative check
so i just get wasted

apt

all the poems in my notebook 
have been replaced 
by pictures of pints