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.