Poem 140

thoughts on food as i move closer and closer to organic


So much of my youth comes back to a cornfield in Iowa.

In the heartland where my father farmers knew

That all mouths are the same shape on the inside.

& we would feed them corn and soy.

& the beef of 10,000 cattle in a single bite.

& we would bend the boars together and slice them

paper thin. Our father farmers knew

that all the mouths would taste the same

when we would feed them corn and soy

& the feat of 10,000 cattle in a single field.

Our father farmers knew that we weigh silos

with our pennies & sleep-walk to the fridge—

so much of my life belongs to a cornfield in Iowa

where livestock wade in waste-land and the poultry

knows no sun.


Poem 13 Revised



she thought she could be beautiful if only

she could decide

what beauty was and was not

afraid of rabbit holes and conversation lulls

speak more candidly, sharpen your arrow tongue

maybe you’re afraid—so be it so be it


she knew she could decide beauty was

if only with a scrap of paper;

water & pigment

—oh—and a brush

but that would be hindering…

a meddlesome fall dries the colors to their leaves…

to paint them why cant they be everything at once


isn’t true beauty potential,

the potential to be everything at once

I want all the colors at once I once

knew a girl with an eye full of sun drops and cancer in her bones

cut her canvas with a house key and set

mixing the oils with her fingertips—

if only mixing was enough

like sex to beget the baby, forget the baby or the potential of a maybe

the acting graces are beauty enough keep going, don’t worry keep going.


I thought I could be beautiful by watching the sky

and tracking the hurricane negotiations from the shore

close enough to hear the thunder chuckle

opened my eyes to lightening and was blinded by

color—light was everything at once.


I tracked the stars in the sand with a walking stick

made their maps dance in the valleys of my footprints

told the truth of their location and nothing more

was that not beauty enough

is said of ideals and most are untrue

the tales of lions dancing in the heaven crest

all the rest is black, like the inner side of a resting eye

with the tide quieting the constellations

the sea is black with possibilities

it may be anything, at once.


Poem 13 EditingPoem 13 Original

Poem 62 Revised

They came by car and coach through hills
To wind up mossy rumor tills
Stare helpless as they—tooth and tale
Scuttled after me,
Well calibrated raw religion
Word murmurs true train trance
Hiccup wheels on rails resounding
—Like a word that you heard in a dream—
Would be-could be-should be
Grow your nonsense thick and leafy
Pack layer layer layer ‘till
No more jealousy just green,
Truth a coal car clatter, perhaps in the grass by the way.