tomato season

august reasons
lines from sun
participle tongues
supporting laudanum 
tomato two to one

aphorisms

sitting black duck
skipping rock
or solid trunk
bobbing for waters touch
golden must be expensive rust
heavens pace is the peace weeds
having places they space stations
growing all the wings into one
pleases fasten onto the lines
spread on a message of this
keep on rolling on

dig and drink

my dreams have a chance
of showers
sprinkles of flower petals
orange buckets filled nettles
swallow the earth
let the dirt sift
through liminal twists
gut instinct never amiss

oft powers
hidden under circumstance well
to the surface lift taciturn minerals
free of the rubble

Lord Luvvadukk (Part 3)

Luvvadukk stopped in the middle of the work room and looked right and looked left and looked right at the cut glass ashtray that sat on the windowsill with three half cigars.  He picked one up and put it in the breast pocket of his yellow denim shirt that was unbuttoned up and loose at the wrists and opened the window to shoo the fly out.  The fly dodged this assault and being a feeble minded fly refused to fly out the open and bounced around up at the top.  Luvvadukk sparred with the fly for nearly ten minutes and began to think that this might never end, that his niece might come next week and find him still fighting to get the fly outside or he may even die before this happened.  Sometimes a fly is so bent, its best to let them do the wrong thing and beat their wings against the glass until they drop dead on the windowsill for the wisp of a corner spider to prize.  Lord Luvvadukk stopped fighting with the obdurate and padded silently back to the door, where he turned and took a one minute look at the fly who was now stalling the inevitable and resting on the window lock.  For this entire minute neither of the two characters moved.  To the fly, it seemed as if time was flying by and for the man it seemed as if time did not exist and the fly was so big and so bright, flicking on the white window sill, that it was the contradiction of life, the unenviable state of knowing enough to know you are trapped alive but not knowing enough to save yourself from your own inspired death.  Luvvadukk knew about as much as the fly did in this regards. 

Lord Luvvadukk (Part 2)

Turning away from the edge of the sun splintered porch, Luvvadukk took the four steps slowly to screen door and paused to hear the red tail hawk break the silence of thousands of crickets and grasshoppers playing their wings in the grass gone to seed.  The barn swallows shooting in and out of the open hayloft did not pause in their loops and the crickets did not cease.  In fact, the crickets and grasshoppers only seemed to grow louder in response to this encroach on their own wild chirping. The screen door slammed and settled on crazy hinges back to a perpetual ten centimeters ajar.  On loafers Luvvadukk was a silent man.  Not that there was a soul there to not hear him pad over the kitchen floor and into the work room.  Despite the silent tread, in the work room, some glass jars holding unassorted nails and screws bounced together and a fly took off and buzzed feebly against the sagging glass window panes.  The floor joists in the work room had had a spring ever since the house was built by Old Man Otto Luvvadukk circa 130 years ago.  Back in that time, as it is still, lumber was scarce, used sparingly, and the long boards for the floor joists had been given more than the customary spacing and the pillars in the center of the plan had been completely neglected or poorly secured to the timber and knocked over long ago by truant skunks and other wandering animals.  The deflection was only mildly alarming and Luvvadukk had no plans to crawl under the house to inspect the situation and definitely no desire to tear up the floor and make adjustments.  The floor decking was also original, faux tongue and groove cedar planking, scarred up badly from a century of hard boots and hard drinking and hard iron tools.  Nearly everyone in this county was a hard drinker and had hard boots and nearly everyone in this county had spent an evening in the Luvvadukk work room.  In his early years, before the town ran out of water, Luvvadukk was a jack of all trades, though strictly a hobbyist.  Folks with intractable problems came to him for quick and cheap fixes.  Lately though, Luvvadukk was turning away the few projects and problems that still came through the big red gates of the Luvvadukk estate, had trouble concentrating and was thinking less applied, more theoretical.  Sometimes he would find himself with a piece of wood in his hands, a door knob, or a trowel, or a box of salt, or a broken balloon and not know what to do with it or why he should do what was to be done in the first place, if that at all. This state of mind was puzzling and it was a puzzlement why this state was more frequently enveloping him as if it was a fog and he a golf course.  Luvvadukk thought that the fog was perhaps a consequence of his being there, but it was situational, it was a fog he walked into.  Outside the work room the air was clear, the sun was bright, and the atmosphere was not viscous, and Luvvadukk was always purposeful.

states

I love when you rip
I love when you steady
I love when you sweet
I love when you smelly
I love when you flow
I love when you eddy
I love when you flat
I love when you rily
I love when you warm
I love when you chilly
I love when you hard
I love when you deadly
I love when you full
I love when you empty

Summer's Dishes

line green stars steam
fire east swath west
down abrupt pyrolite
hemisphere gadgets turnt key
burdens peace 5am screen
lunch beams open please

muskie blues

oh god, we got those muskie blues

I'm a muskie fishing man from a muskellunge land
born with a fishingpole in my hand
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

I'm a muskie fishing man from a muskie fishing town
Fishing for that muskie til the sun goes down
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

trawl all day til the evening come
trawl all night til the gas is done
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

out here fishing in the snow and the rain
dont catch none but I try anyway
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

never catched a muskie and might never will
but if I do, we'll eat muskie gills
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

Get in the boat with the tackle and the net
like a muskie fish, fishing soaking wet
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

Be fishing for the fish till I catch one
from eagle wing down to 201
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

trawling for the fish and jig some too
a muskie on the line will always come loose
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

curiously mud

more patient than the bowfin
must be great
or millions of years wait
is not too long to be late

satiate in the midst of solution
a quorum of liquid stasis
remedial eyes spot fins as the basis
to instants in absentia perfection

south bay is a place to say
its two ok
fine enough that ages
a patina of algaes
that cheshire grin
who might turn in or out
to be a fish disguised as a lawyer
or a dismal pike a shoe

fax

inconstant is hopes goes
awaits triads flows
so the gardener grows
tomatos and beans in rows
the sky dumps sun on those
but rain is what throws
life into listing boughs

all green

roots and shoots
food for common clods
blocks of thoughts
building strong
hands and whats
lists of props
twice cyclops

_

doctor doctor
give me a shot
snot in your nose
and slugs in your ouch
heals the toes
breaths the most
deer brains shinola mouth
little birds crap alot
sons they sell
cost a fetch
work them death
eat the rest
tired and smoke
lies a joke
in the grave
muskie got yo dick

kins

one forty clicks
up around back
to hear fire hot tears
drop into sand
castles made of home
burnt two bays aways

Nocturne, E Op 8, No 2

through fields stirring
with the unsleepers
a ride on radiances
the goblet pours silver
brilliant and blinding
through the black woods
turning all down here
into all down there

a portion of the spectrum
chances are selective
in choice photons
conducting a cricket section
soft steps blur wet

adjust what
never set
in bones
blood tides
a round midnight
hides shadows
behind lifes
cut teeth
bite

datum

I

peace does not follow
a straight path
it squanders in ditches and streams that dont last
time is a factor but the more it is past
the less calm is caught with every cast

II
clouds burgeon and balloon
horizons skew from soon
burnt wind whips the spray
forty yards drops away
dusty hot skin peppered
spots scattering granite make a leapord

II.22
arms walk recreations etudes brillantes at seven herz
the resonance of spinal courts
a hardrock marimba chatters
lines melodious by crashing water
periodic white noise backdrop for reverence and rattle
snakes scatter and dive for appellations

III
a following sea
the pith of the tiller
burned into knuckles
eyes on the crests and jumps
weight and balance
alone never enough

General Malaise

reserved optimizing
approximate lines
crystal clear intersects
interstices to radials on polar spines
strains of brilliant tin
germane luster symphonies
nine times out of then
a resurrection of hesitant melancholy
a peasant conducts properly electric
the property ohmic and gaudy
silk tied end to end to profusely
a painter akwardly and mal error
ropes apprehend a generation descended
foils for foibles done centuries

noon

sitting in the yard
talking books to leafs and fleurs
salts of the earth well to the surface
freeing the flys up into humid skys
spiders and their ilk
web the sun to dark skin
stretched semipermeable thin
across the back of perpetual motioning
blood thick and mosquito itch
velvet antlers an elk
wandering down to the old watering hole
(or as groucho says what
is actually looking for
is an elkahole)
So what  to do besides
a launch off the dock
a cloud in pajamas
sailing out to add a splash of red
aberration on the silverblue ceiling above
below the silence
preaching volumes on eel grass ravines
the mud of the months
collections of colleagues lost
lists of fauna and granite dust
the past is present in the millers and midges
from swim under to flutter over
overtures to metamorphosis'
brought to you by igneous thoughts
glaciers long ago calved carved all
thats abouts
indivisible with the currents trees
ancestor moss and lichen
slowly turning stone into vitamin

swum

surfeit black surface splatter
splotch moon in spots scatter
dips in thoughts which matter
hats wet as fish skin plaster
sip the windiest water

isles_for_miles_L

a bounding rock plain
where lizards supposedly play
really, though, just hidden beer and bees
a habit that first search
when we where only ten
              still

archival winds

oh you stupid distracting clouds
these clouds have not looked this good
this spectacular since last time
(assuming they are the same clouds:
which leafs an aperture to wonder
how long it takes for this hair
to make it all the way round)

lightning strikes

this day a stretch
awake to keep sleep again
hot in bed 9 am
rigged up ill fitting spars
raising sails without a clew
wrong back to square one

constitutional

what is needed is a porcupine outlook.  
but not the porcupine pooping up the den,
but instead that porcupine up in the tree
sleeping balanced on pine boughs bouncing in the breeze.
whats up there to see if its not below our feet?

brilliant corners

divvy and take stock
spoons and forks and cups
metric and english
rogues and lost shingles
horse feathers more sweaters
worst weather is whenever

first stories

the bugs inhabit the hands
of plants eating the land
sending up juices
and solutions
to soak up the suns contributions

second stories

the porch has sights
mud daubers black bright
greater this a birds rights
above the tops of earths bites
a glimmer from on greater heights
arrowed there mere erudite

perpendicular to here

the north wind
damns the fisher
to hunger
the curse is on
the fish go home
the jig is up
down we go

frog frog frog

frog was sitting mid street
taking in the midnight heat
says I frog
this is a bad place to be
the traffic is squashy your squat and hard to see
I leant to scoop said frog
said frog I will pee
in your hand dont touch me
I learned thats truth
as I held frog in hands shaped a cup
Said frog squirmed
and sat in pee
embarrassed into quiet
frog I tossed in the cool grass
picture my hands though still wet with piss

gold at forty deep

I want your blood on my hands
I want your head at my feet
I want your guts in my hair
I want your skin on my teeth

a feather lost

a feather tossed
turned white to off
from a wing
on the wind
to lost thoughts
rising waves and troughs

at arms length

the lily stalks
big orange talk
above the bounding mane
a roil tensing and bouncing
net gigapascals in the bush
silver to the touch
and death to the moth

the shoal out front

THE SHOAL OUT FRONT*

the problem of
swimming out to the rock
disrupting a seagull
and standing up
is it is
so good
to dry out this blood
swimming in the sun
with granite dark wet feet
river kisses
two soles
and flows
quartz veins
saturated
this day intermittent
rainshine
whats this rock if it isn't mine

__ to wind the heart with langmuir lines



*the shoal has been out front since before i or you was
yet as it was
always holding off the river
at certain times of year
above or below

a relief for those to perch
who live aways away

summer winds

when the bugs
fly in my eye
they die
better they be lashed
than smashed
and sealed under lid