I have enough to make two books. And I might put them out like I’ve threatened for years. So here’s a sample. If you want a book tell me. I need your kick in the ass.

LM

Old Jensen’s Creek

He runs far and stays away on school nights

Grass stained knees and orange blood on a sleeve

The fields stare back at him from class

Teacher stuffing letters into the pockets of the good kids

Whose parents dote

He runs far and listens to the old timers

Spinning yarns on benches built by their fathers

Making lite of the broken systems

That allowed the fishing to get so bad

He punches the boy from lunch that pokes his ribs

And scratches his eyes in a bloody fight

Banging skulls against the gymnasium door frame.

Teeth in knuckles and hair between teeth.

He ran to the riffle in old Jensen’s creek

To burn and drown the note home

That he wasn’t afraid to die.

Take It Easy, Little Bird

Our stories grow thin and the pages

Stuck together at the end

Greased fingers sweating

Afraid to let go because the worst part is the space left over

When your fingers don’t have that book

When your mind won’t center

We speak in a language of dark matter,

Don’t let it thrust you back to the beginning

to the unsoiled pages

This is the space for faltering or flight

Just take it easy little bird

It’s time to leave for the big pine on the mountain,

time to start again.

Canyonlands I

She wept in the canyonlands before the sun caught her

Shimmering naked freak

Screaming at the walls and pushing through the ghosts

Who came before and led her here.

The walls speak back in whispers

Groaning mountain mahogany in the dawn breeze

The canyon wren running scales

And the mormon tea flushing her flogged legs

Raw and red and a rivulet

Painting the sage and greasing the creosote

Running

Canyonlands II

Face in the seep

By the viscera of a pack rat

Guilty of scurrying too close to a premonition

A trembling face eyes twitching

Fevers racing inside obstructed by nothing

nothing human any longer

Cold visions of the farm in winter

The potatoes boiling and the pitch crackling

As her father punched holes in his belt

Working a makeshift awl

Of antler handle and ten penny nail

With hands knotted like oak burls

She rolled her matted hair in the tiny pool

And pursed her blistered lips to the magpie

Tending this congregation

Canyonlands III

She spoke to the burrowing owl under the harvest moon

Crossing the pan with feet slinking in the acidic dust

Reminding her she forgot how to fly

Coyotes drifting in and out of sight

Cackling shrilly in a language wrought with anticipation

She slung herself onto a boulder and broke out in laughter

A cacophonous song filled the desert night

While she leaped into the stars