balkan winter

the caves
are cold

primus stove heat
and rice
flat bread specked
with grit

no supplies today
shrieking jets
steel and carbon

goats bleat angry
cold grips
with fingers of
god

rocks and snow
inert time
blanks out treelines
breaking up jagged
air
and resolve

blackness and liquid
seeping into and out
of ground

children dance in fields
after school
the harvest
weeks away
waiting for the next
wave of machines
to go away

---

roxy

I can remember
the ride downtown
on a #6 bus
to the Roxy

a quick stop at the
pinball emporium
before effecting
that over 18 image
to see some skin

maybe it was those
dusty red curtains
and posters
that got me started
or the front row seats
so close you would
swear you could
smell her pussy

the place
smelled of piss
old wine and cum

she needed a shave
and a trowels’
worth of makeup

we filed out
way past the
bus schedule
looking for
something
anything
to spend
the night with
in need of
heat

---

paper & flesh

while simultaneously
ordering a drink
lighting a cigarette
talking to me
and hitting
on a woman
next to her
she asks
the bartender
what time he gets
off work

WOW
I thought
and I am glad
I caught on early
instead of making
a fool of myself

her emails were
entertaining
but I wasn’t
reading
the words
I wasn’t
believing
the voice inside
my head
saying this isn’t
quite right

I left her
kneeling on the floor
of a bookstore later
that night
rummaging
through a bag
containing her life
and drove home
2 bukowski books
under my arm
and beer to drink
alone

---

the fields

blow the narcotic
in the wind

burst on the
               temporal

       washing
              washing
                     flooding

sunglasses
          explode             colors
of Fall
down below the Ohio
         River into
            Kentucky
that nip of air
           two fold
reminds
of shutting down
                       and that of heart time
                       and desire fading

blow the smell
into wind

impregnate color and trees
        with tilt
                          the wobble of planet
                        in motion with short
                                 daylight slots

chrome is replaced with
      camo
                                     the dull thud
of black plastic butts
               on shoulderblades
                       as villagers hurry out
                       of torched huts in
                       afghanistan and
                       washington, d.c.
                       looking for freedom



my son in green
that look
         in his eyes
         predator
         frightened after
         hours marching
at fort knox
graduating into
what?

           that smell in the
               wind
         oiled with blood
               the young get
       ready
              to die

the old worry
             about tomorrow

cordite and depleted
                          uranium shells
brass casings on the ground

the narcotic
of hate
               the narcotic of
                      change
        too fast to
         catch running
             in fields of poppy
            and cotton
blaring
          in mountain
                    air
               fragrant
         with death