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for carolyn, wearing the crown of pain

on the other side of the continent
in the wrong part of the year,
bleeding ice-cold sunlight and
thinking about st maria and last blurry
fucked up days of dennis Wilson


waiting for the children to run away


waiting for judas and his
latest girlfriend and when he finally arrives
he brings a copy of exile on main st
and a bottle of wine


smiles and says the
brightest days are behind us


knows in his heart that there is no
end in this world to the list of
things not worth dying for

100 years

were breathing crystal meth out in

the parking lot behind kmart and she was
                        laughing in the heat she was
                        sweating pure bliss said
                        i had to kiss her feet said
                        i had to lick her wounds
                                                        smiled
                         said god was truly dead and
                         on that much
                         we agreed

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the child, cut in two

not the dying man
but his reasons

his hands
which are grabbing

which are empty and so
what would you
fill them with?


the bones of his children
is an obvious answer
so look past it

reinvent the circle
if you have to

build a better bomb

we have been in this desert
too long now and eating
nothing but the dreams
of the starving

we have been bleeding
for as long as we can
remember but
listen

every day brings us
closer to a darker age

every war is the one
that cannot be lost

this is what we tell the
widows as
we undress them

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poem for all of the editors who've written to tell me how much they hate poems about writing poetry

and i don't believe in god
and i have no use for poets


have no use for wars
or for any of the ways that
words fail us


think about silence


think about the idea of
rape camps


about the reality
the way the human mind
turns concepts
into butchered bodies


and even on days where
i breathe nothing but
pale blue sunlight
i refuse to let go
of my hatreds


i refuse to act on them


which of these
would you define as
cowardice?

still

and the killer is caught,

and his girlfriend weeps

the baby has no chance,

of course,
and the apartment is cold,
the windows loose in their casings,
the grey light of january filling
the rooms like sleeping gas

smell of gasoline,

approach of trains and
               then the fade

an abandoned factory in the

center of town

a wreath of dead flowers

hanging on
the fence that surrounds it

something small for the

world to revolve around