This time the train will come.
And we will wrestle
In the acetylene light of the yard.

This time we all walk
through the neon fiesta
Flash gas all around.
        In lungs, eyes, exploding outbound ears.

I've walked until these hills trip my steps.
Steppes my old old mother worked, died, birthed in.
They are here:
         dusty father
                 waiting to walk away
          rolling sage sister soul
                  never wanted to be here any way
          (Bastard concrete ribbon brother
              In the almost forgettable distance).
itsalloverifhedoesn'tlovepraisethewordwewon'tbe

                           On my knees under them
                                      Setting son
                               I burst in a sandy, golden arc
                                       Destined to return.

The tracks were almost here before us
they lead back:  past back, through, over
       father, sister, daughter
       phoenix mother
       sun

This time the train
pulls dangerously close to our heads
as we cry uncle

and listen.

As I went walk-a-bout one evening
looking for extremes
I had to count my steps and
lightly skip around my dreams

loaded down with art and storm
and bleating moon-calf
I found my still mind wandering
amidst the rock and wall

doest thou not see?
my-self deposed, and here
upon this isle
surrounded by my books and such
and dreaming, dreaming

while,

I look for death
in front me
see the bush
that burns so brightly
harken to the monster
in
that laughs upon the weight
of sin

stepping lightly
stepping soft
trodding deep amongst the lost
waiting for another storm
to soothe the bruise
and heal the torn.

Here before the knot that vex me
smelling somewhere of the pond
arise and look three times to grave
and break the magic wand

for here the art within the art
will flow'r and turn and spore
and there with blessed treacher'y
I step to heaven's door

shall I leave this stormy isle?
no more as king of all
and harken back the
brave new world
release the banner
past so furl'd

and dream no more
with nymphs at call
to do my bid and guile

I shall
I think
keep walk-a-bout
and earth and soul and stream
and wait another storm
to come
and tamper with my dream

Silently sat
We at a destined tea.
Under envious glances
   we can choose to be generic
   we could always choose freedom.

I can never remember
Products lost in lines
checks for bread, shoes, air even.
Or burned lives, singed or consumed
after generations.
I have never had to learn a system
I believed should Be forgotten.

Curious and cautious
We were given this chance
Under close supervision
   we look ahead, or to small pieces of the past
   we find forgetting more possible than reflection

I remember hearing
The Voice of your nation
and wishing for
Air Jordan shoes, Wonder Bread,
to Set The Night On Fire.
And now I have them all too!
I can Come To Where The Flavor Is
or be The Choice Of A New Generation.
Fifty years is a quick and easy time to be forgotten.

Turning back to the ghosts
"You can see the houses from here"
And the city centre, the old town (stare miesto)
Older now because they will never be

Ghosts left in a tremendous bowl of ashes
Hosed down at the beginning of every day
As if they could blow away.

Tearing, back turned
On summer heat shimmering masses
"You can see the houses..."
Houses of dead burned children
Built with brick made of ashes
from the bowl and their bones.

The new fence makes diamonds of the town
and the ancient castle on the hill
      full of gold
      and its own death

Never more than these diamonds
     800,000 black, stank shoes compressed to make
     who survived
     and us remember.

"You can see the houses from here"
You, wet Ohio face
to a death that cries
as we walk to the bus
that carries us out past the castle
to our own sleep

Intelligent Individual seeks
laid-back, equity concerned, challenging
engagement.
Salary, Family Benefits, and Consciousness
are required.

Employer must be flexible, just,
bright, funny,
dead.

Qualifications include:
education, breath, humor,
thought.

Apply in Person!
Direct, Live contacts Only.

                       Today, they plowed the church yard.
                       A dwarf tractor and plow making ready for the lushness of
                       a following spring.

I only noticed the grass was dead two or three days ago.
I wonder how long it spent in agony,
with no-one shouting for revival
or agronomical redemption.

I enjoyed the dead grass
-a rough draft of scripture and
earth-referenced holiness
dry, brown and spiritual for life

Dead grass, a possible re-birth
for something else
A new breed of lawn, a strain with thorns
or fruit, or luminous blades
to lead us from darkness . . .

churches wouldn't need stained glass anymore,
sub-strains could be developed to encompass
the whole Kingdom of colours.

My friends could find my new apartment in the dark.
"It's right across from the glowing grass!"
I could direct them, with an added snicker or twinkle.

What will the Church plant?
           Fescue or Bermuda, probably
           (one could only hope for Buffalo
           or Big Blue Stem.)

I am only young, and not married
My roots system is shallow
with vast-flat connectedness in spite of my family.
          It has been dead, plowed, scarred
prepared for re-birth.

In the absence of the lawn, is fecund death.

Christmas Hit Today
Like a Night-Train Blizzard

500 dollars an hour for Baby Jesus in a wood crib
and enough straw to line our pockets.

All around wrappings and bows accumulating
in Razor drifts blown over with enough high, sharp, coldness
to draw some blood, spirit.

And I in my nametag and Fred in her Socks
stand behind the counter as lobbed volleys of
XMAS cheer fall into the drawer and ruin our retail reputation.

Next JULY, I'm gonna plant green sour ringlets around me
gonna plant ‘em in Pig Shit
like Rice Shoots
gonna surround myself with ‘em and be
where sheep do NOT safely graze,
whereof the christmas ewe not bites.

And maybe, if I'm good, I can grow a high enough ring
to keep you
and the blizzard train
and the hate of a whole season
Out.

Six months in a daze.
With warm sun, hot food, boiled water

A long, young time to be baked.

Encased with poor, strong people
willing
blind enough to act.

Drenched with that beyond

I returned, brown and warm
standing over the most
sterile water I had ever seen.

Golden, darkened
in a white mass
under yellow, sickly, clean lights.

None of us willing to jump