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
Sign me up
I won’t lie to you this is some dope. Print it and I’ll buy a copy.
do it…
i recently started reading/following. after reading one entry I was wondering if you had anything published; after reading 15 entries, i am wondering why the hell you don’t have a book out already. make it happen.
Please do. I’d buy one for me and several for the other guys in the family.
You are talented. Follow your dream and make things happen. No one else is going to do it for you. And if you don’t succeed, you tried and will never have to think about the what if…
Love -W
I see inside your mind.
Yes, please! Do you feel the kick?
Careful, I’m wearing steel toes.
I’d wear a robe and proselytize this from street corners.
Seriously do it.
Came back to this looking for motivation in my own writing. Keep kicking ass, and write the fucking book.