And You Shall Be Named Judah

Lioness I am,
gold french chains all around.

I fashioned a granite stomach,
hard as the pinkest of nails.

Chalky bones reinforced,
with the enamel of Oya's eyes.

I will ride the river to the islands of Spain,
to find her, to find me, to break this badness.

Whitish Black Coffee On First Street

If you only told me then
how her life affects me now.

I'd have painted feathers on my purse long ago,
I would have saved every polyester button up,
every clip on ear costume.

I am sorry, Virginia.
Your legend lives in every part of my every day.

Fried Birthday Cake and God is Good; or The Thing We Are Not To Name

Let's take the low way,

Edmund Fitzgerald depths.

Eagles, baby deer, rifles cocked, lions den, cracked and black branches.

All these tell me to wait before walking.

The Professors Wife

What she really left was his ego.

I would've left that self-epitheting fool too.

With a son, a product too tall for anyones good.

His harmonica screams look at me.

Look at my educated accent,

Look at my worn out boots,

Look at my book reading.

Look at my wife walking out the door.

Jim Crow for Sherrif

I wonder if Mr. Rice was proud,

pleased he danced on the hearts of "freedmen,"

proud he set the first example for Nuremberg,

pleased he danced on the hearts of the hungry.

I feel the Great Migration in my bones,

I see the left over campaigns of the Crow,

I hurt for the children of God that helped raise us all.

Two cheers for the Poor Peoples Campaign,
Twelve hundred sorries for all the bloody Sundays.

The Sidewalks Finally Gave

Indiana feels foreign
you know, like we've never lived here before.
And the hearts of these men weigh on my own.

We wonder how we love them more than their birthrights,
their wrongs, too many to count.
Crying only when no one is looking.

Made in his imagine,
and we'll fuck it up always.
Made in his likeness,
and we'll kick the unconditional to the curb.

Circled Up Hawk Feathers and Many Accidents In As Many Days

Here is what:

I wanted to lay in that circle of feathers,
with no blood flow,
with inability to move my limbs,
with a shovel to remove the remaining,
with an ischaimia that refuses to let me wake.

Without your accidents bloodying my own.

Dead Baby Deer Good Friday.

Curled up like a brand new fucking baby.

Happy pre-resurrection. Little cadejo.
I'm sure you were the white one.
You had to be.

Those long longs,
I meant legs but this is better.
You looked fallow.

Gilded,
wooden,
figurine.

You have to know I'd carry you to the New Forest if I could.

Try As You May, Blue Collar Childhood

Through and through and through,
and we're nestled in.

Bridge Welding led him to Banjo Playing,
with a meanness like no other,
like a kitchen, a lion coup, a string-breaking symphony
of yardsales and free box hearts.

The Olive Hill Tom T. Hall,
the Eureka Mike Patton,
and the Roswell John Denver.

Backporch Carolina,
Queencity and darling men,
5 strings and no slaves,
Jubilee until the mint cows leave home.

Civil Rights and Mushroom Clouds

I live at the Stable Gallery most days,
grooming my resiliency,
celebrating the joy of joys.

Let's go, brothers and sisters,
we're going West,
maps in hand, crumpled or not.

The frontier waits patient,
the Badlands we will run,
furs we will trade,
mocassins we will fashion,
reeds we will chew,
canyons we will jump,
fossils we will paint,
red shirts we will wear,
berries we will hunt,
hope we will know.

Mines and pines and dust bowls.
A love caravan like no other.

Inks and Blues; A Passerine's Life in Numbers

Little old world one,
finding white-wings, black-winged, blue-bearded seeds of grey.

I'm kickdrumming with fists wide open on a metal dinner plate,
hoping in the greater.

The two of us,
running along side owls, burning down barns and loving until the null hour.

Poor as the Hills that Prophet Was or Let's Go, Okay?

Grab your barbed wire and bean sprouts,
we are going to smash that lake water with our feet,
harmonica your face,
take the buffalo to Georgia,
and put some turquoise on my finger.

Lawless and wreckless and artist,
re-wired you would be.

Margot Kaessmann and H.G. Wells Lost Their Lunch Money

Oh Margot, your Eucharistic Vision was blurred beyond repair,
beyond deed,
beyond it all.

Go ahead and Bishop your move and lets be thankful,
you don't need a rope,
to hold your pants up.

Maybe you were didactic,
but moreso standing still,
in the doorstop of Standgate.

Margot, Isabel, Maude and Moura,
I wonder if you wander about,
in the resiliency of it all.

Polish National Alliance or You Didn't Have A Fighting Chance

Night number one and you waited it out with me.

You hugged me with that empty glass bottle,
breaking my ribs enough to let cords of midnight navy out.

The Katyn Forest Massacre is waiting in the morning for me,
fought only with the bluest of inksticks. Graphite but really grafight.

The meta of Maurice,
the epoche of the Indentured,
and if I look at you too long, I will surely stop working.

snow, sparrows, skinny hawks and this addiction

And I think she just had a hard winter,
me too.

With black ashes atop my crownless head,
here we go.

On Lying, Against Lying,
perjury I have.

Despite all this, I have been told,
I want to see you dance every day.

No menagerie, no Exeter Exchange,
will stop my brothers.

They will walk beside me, fall beside me,
footrace this akrasia.

Ohio Valley, or We Were Bearing West with an Azimuth of 270

Speaking of the illness of wanting.

Get me to the streets,
get me an Alice-type medicine,
forget the good,
the bad,
and the valvular disease.

My Bundle of His is in a bad shape.

Saf(f)ron, Socks and My Blood Feels Thin Today

Deflated kardia,
Broken tire.

Same god-damn thing, really.