[108]
10/18/2017 05:19 p.m.
When the Vandagraph Man came to town
bursting with that energy and slumping through that frictionful walk,
with his belt of silk and coat to his knees,
I hugged my body tight and my secrets tighter.

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[107]
12/14/2015 03:00 a.m.
The day it washed out of the woods was also
the day she threw up blood and blue colors.

everything will die at the exact moment she dies

this year I am iron

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[106]
07/08/2015 07:09 p.m.
A poem for a friend's girlfriend which includes FFVII & Postal Service references:

In the Montana wilderness,
where folks know real space
& real silence,
the coyotes will tell you that Love isn't loud.

They will tell you that in the dust of the Planet,
before the world was warmed,
Love slept lonesome
on the grass and
had no voice at all.

The coyotes will tell you how they snuck
through the bending lights of the cracks of the sky,
and stole Fire
from the fingers of the gods and the cynics.
How Fire was guided home.
How the grass caught roaring ablaze.
How Love caught roaring with it.

They will tell you that from then on Love and Fire
have always tumbled entwined --
mirror imaged &
too bright to see --
They will tell you that love isn't loud,

but it is no longer voiceless.


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[105]
02/06/2015 06:16 a.m.
scraps for saving:


when he begs to share her bed she lets him know he’s just
too little.

once he felt he was unintentionally interesting and now he strives to be impressive even to himself.

the way he bore her down was slow and quiet, and mean like the curling edges of a terrier’s mouth.

With each pumping beat all slump in her chest she sinks deeper and breathes harder and thinks faster.




I am a coyote.
I laugh like little children and feel
full of death and fire and
break apart into lots of
beings and come together into

few
when
you
meet
me
at
the
crest

(howling howling howling howling)
the gregarious solitudes of this
desert flush dust into my mouth and
arch into their voices staccato
mourning lost childhoods, lost
children and begging for
relief.

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[104]
02/06/2015 05:05 a.m.
In response to Alison McKenzie's Coyote Council:

This morning we
called a council outside of
your little neighborhood
while no one else
was awake.

We do this once in a while —
once, a while ago, we did this
in the daylight instead.

Once, a while ago, people
remembered that we were more
than seethings masses to be
shot from helicopters and
poisoned in backyards.

We were
the bringers of fire and the
makers of death and the
mourners of our lost sons
to our friends the crows.

We were
the trickster spirits of lost
people, with human voices and
universal souls and still,
to remind you, we
laugh like children
in the gloaming.

Now we meet early in
the dawn and the mist settles
on the briefly green grasses
and we carry our noises into
your little windows hoping
you’ll remember,
too.

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[103]
09/26/2013 06:21 p.m.
Still stuck on the heart of fire thing:


In the middle of the funny semi-desert mountain canyons
where there isn't a great deal of shade
or shelter at the height of the day and the big
black beetles dig tiny holes in the scraggy rock
sides and the coyotes laugh like children and
keep the gate, Elke has just learned that her
heart is not in fact made of fire.

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[102]
06/30/2013 06:43 p.m.

I was born with a deformity where my heart is made of valves and
chambers and isn't actually made of fire like everyone else's. As
you can imagine, this has lead to some pretty bad teasing. You
can't tell from the outside but once word gets out it's pretty ceaseless.
And to make matters worse I can feel all my blood sloshing around,
beating and beating and beating but not exuding the same passionate
warmth as the rest of you.

it could be worse. I know a boy who was born with a heart of
liquid nitrogen and no one will go near him.


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[101]
10/16/2012 04:46 p.m.

While trying to prove the inexistence of a higher power and the various
accoutrements one would entail, philosophers were forced to admit a
particularly unexpected outcome: the entire world is actually a xylophone.

Children and percussionists crossed their arms and shook their heads at
the obviousness that seemed to baffle everyone else -- is not every moment
of every day essentially being whacked over and over and eliciting an outcome?
Preferably a pretty one with clear and expected tons, but sometimes you're
whacked in the exact wrong place and maybe you make buzz or a thud or a
dissonant bawp or maybe you're hit with two mallets instead of one and more often
than not the chord created sounds just awful. The metaphor, they argue, is inarguable.

Everyone else doesn't get it. Ninety percent of them aren't even sure what the
difference between a xylophone and a glockenspiel actually is. They stare at the
sky looking for evidence of a rainbow octave and wooden frames and find nothing.

Worse, this means that a lot of changes have to be made, and soon. The first program
anyone writes is now "Print: hello, xylophone," the popular MMORPG is now
Xylophone of Warcraft, the Atlas and continents must be recombined to represent low
to high notes.

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[100]
06/12/2012 12:12 p.m.

Your heart is not made of fire.
It is instead an intricate mix of fractal tubes and chambers,
a disappointing epiphany.



If your heart were made of fire --
it's not, but if --
everything would work just the same.
You would pump in oxygen and pump out
CO2 and
pump in oxygen and
pump out

your nostrils chimneys your pupils furnace grates.

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[099]
11/09/2011 09:18 p.m.

she says:
"it's got to be here somewhere,
i made her out of something,"
and fishes into deep barrels of
cuttlefish and turmeric and
other things with complex u's and
mnemonic smells,
hands textured and gritty.

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