the rough good poets

hide behind whisky

maybe sex, love, brain

all those

me,

a grainy field

gray photograph

wind chime

place

the boy

still fetchin’

speckled

pheasant eggs.

the name of this poem is fuck you

i’ve scourged a patch

with my pissing.

my lungs,

in this case,

are just as bad as cancer-

eat and kill

the host

yeah,

chew yourself to death.

take a smell

the three august raindrops

are cooking on the asphalt,

the whores of the used surfaces

scrape, rake

sepulchre.

i don’t want this

to be another lesson.

Ol' Thang

Sortin’ thru my stinky old drawers...here’s one from the bad old days.


I stomped inside
wearing nothin' but
my Tarzan shorts
flip-flops and attitude,
the drunk tank next door
still chorusing,
'Woooooo....put him in here!'
and
'Say, ol' thang!'
I pushed up to
the only bare, greasy seat
on the mattress
and planted my angry ass,
staring at the bar shadows on the floor.
Everybody looked at me.
Corn Nap said,
'Say, ol' thang, that's MY bunk.'
I looked at everybody.
'Fuck You,' I said. 'What are you in for?'
I thought that's what
you were supposed to ask.
And say.
Turns out everybody
ends up asking it.
And saying it.
'Transfer to Huntsville,'
said Corn Nap.
'For what?'
He squeezed thru,
squeezed in,
sat next to me.

'Murder.'

He put his hand on my knee....ol' thang.
I returned the favor,
hand on his.
I got close enough for
him to smell my 48 hour breath.
'Man, I'm 'sposed to be in Dallas,
gatherin' up
'bout 5 pounds of Mexican weed,
spendin' the weekend
in a hotel room
just off Harry Hines
swimmin' in the pool
fuckin' my old lady
relaxin' for a hard week
of skitchin' on pink
hydrochloride rock
sellin' weed
fuckin' my old lady,
and
slappin' little fuckers like you 'cause
they didn't pay off the front on time.'

Corn Nap squeezed back
through the shadows
to the bars
and stared at
the bar-shadow light
over the pay phone
for awhile.
The dude yelling into the phone
with the cord stretched
through the bars
ignored him.


If it hadn't of been for the
big fucker-
they hauled in about 3 am....

I wouldn't have slept on the cigarette butts.

1863

...a lil’ memorial day ditty....
I think about this'n this time of year for some reason....and me and Reb were talkin' about history, so:



1863

and this brilliant generation's girls
shrilled with hope then horror
boys marched and starved
and smoked pipes
with each other
and had their guts shredded
across the green spring fields
bled up the winter hills
and
disappeared.
gone forever
with every fucking hope then horror.
and the smoke is still here.
i smell it.

SNH 102106

the half of it

the half-moon splays a thing across people’s face
that only displays a half-truth
lies
in the blue white light features are always beautiful
on the one side
and the other finds a place to hide
but as you turn your head
you notice

Zemquotes, part 2

my


insecurities at times


will


announce themselves


like the edge of an old, ragged
hand-me-down slip


slipping as it were


out from under a new dress



embarrassed.


red.


excuse me.

FTW

she’s the

one

with the honey-blonde firefall

and the junebug-colored heart.

she sometimes says
she doesn’t belong
in this world.



fuck this world.

Zemquotes III: kitty porn

he likes to go
between my legs
and lay.
i make him tents
for just such pleasures..
the tent of love.
he likes when
i rub his nipples.
he has eight of them
you know,
and I get to them all.
he feels it.
he lays on my breasts
his head on my heart
he is my baby
we are together
this is just a love fest
there is nothing sexual.

disassemble heart, 6 years hence

we separate junk
not junk
cough in the dust
clank,
in the trash can
“ “, no sound
in the boxes
empty it out
leave no room.

no room for
the assistant
toting chunks of life
to the curbs
while he texts
everybody he can think of.

no room for him in this
he cain’t be in this
and he knows it.

no room.

leaning against
the tailgate
elbows on
eyebrows winking up at the sky

‘Well, I reckon it ain’t gonna rain on this load. Maybe just a sprinkle.’

‘Yup. Maybe just a sprinkle.’

we cain’t look at it
too hard
or we won’t be able to move.

some crap i found on a yellow paper

i need to hear trains
it’s the only sound but birds
that makes me happy


africa.
like the sound
africa. af-ri-ca.
strums up sounds
serengeti
drums big beasts
blood breast dances
jungle nursings
mama
yeah, mama.
nobody
wants it anymore.

ugly button

almost got it pushed today
that ugly thing
thought i’d gotten over that
can’t abide
riptide
hate-anger induced-produced
boiling
roiling
finger figure that
life
aside
myself
provides
pressing
my respect
for an accidental nothing.

when will we learn
that all souls have their problems
we can’t assume
presume
that
nobody
has anguish
but me?

some gushy bullshit

early this mornin’

there was a
black puppy
on the red seat beside me
the windows were open
and blowing
we looked outside
at the summer sun
sheening the evening
at roads going by
recognizable
but not familiar.

we looked back in.

my mother
and my father sat close
on the driver’s side,
smiling
and busting chops
and kissing.
it was so happy
me and the puppy cried.
‘thank you for giving
them this.
for giving us this.’

i woke up.

i stared at the ceiling
with a wet face
and thought as loud
as i could:
‘thank you for
lettin’ me see that.
even if it ain’t true.’

i wanna die on a ferris wheel

yeah...


high

all the carny smells

floating up on my face

ancient turkey legs

sweet corny on dogs

flagrant mustard sticks

spun pinks blues sugars

cigarette smoke and diesel

past butters on

a popcorn sound

down by the lit tents

half the bulbs out

on the arms,

the seat squeaks

like it’s the last

time

every time.


low

thick breath

sweats and pushing

scattered stubs

like gunwads

on oiled gravel

then the burnt tatted

arm

(‘stand back, folks’)

ratchets the rumble

handle to kick up

some hair dust

and make the seat

swivel crazy

feet swing

for the new pass

you grin an

absolute grin

then let go.


there’s a $50 tip in my pocket.

thar

thar’s a hot cast-iron skillet

re-renderin’ a couple

layers of the past

by spoonfuls from the coffee can

in my mouth:


thar’s a cornmeal coat

on a young tomato

dancin’

next to buttermilk

and brother okrie


thar’s a sweet onion

new like the evenin’

waitin’

to blister

cut thick like she likes it

sweatin’ in the warm

top the peppered taters


thar’s pork chops piled

in the fresh salted flour

smilin’

they know they’re last

and they know they’re best





thar’s a screendoor

smoke can breathe through

and a dog

barkin’ about it

zemquotes IV: kittyporn II

here comes the

little one

assume the position

this is his favorite

way to lay


[lil one left-

embarrassed by

the talking]


he’ll be back

he’ll love me again

all i gotta do

is lay here


both of them like

kissy faces

and the little one

likes a good tail-tug

hard


c’mon love, i’m

right here

c’mon love

my baby


come for boobie

love, lil kitty

get on

the teets

sittin'.

sittin’ here

the sun crashed

into the comanche hills

and splashed quiet fire

sizzlin’

the clear fork

of the trinity


the crickets fiddle in november


over there

is the rio brazos

.the arms of god.

it cuts the country

from now to cortez

rolls the rocks

it carries dinosaur bones

and hawks with it


the lightnin’ bugs don’t get together anymore


i’d bust every rock

in the brazos

with my bare feet

just

to tell you the truth

to bring the truth

home to you.

raw ass.

anyways,
there was this fellar there at
the pallet plant name of
royce.
we called him raw-ass
‘cause it was funny and he
didn’t like it.
one day raw-ass come in
all skittish with a big ol’
shiny black eye
and a gash on his cheek,
walkin’ quick-like past
the coffee and time clock
to the line, like he was
all a sudden a hard hand
or sumpin.

somebody hollered
‘hay raw-ass! what happened
to yor eye? that goat
finally git tarred a yor
gropin’ ass?’

raw-ass turned red-

‘HAY! What goes on
between me
my wife
and our stovewood
ain’t. nonaya’lls.
damn. bidness!’


-hipbilly

sore head on a friday night

‘cause when i die
i ain’t gonna
sweat
who’s gonna pick up
and run with
The Amex Bill
or digs through my shitty house
for pieces of my dumb ass.
i’m gonna stare at
circumstance
and
destiny
directly
and witness where
i kicked ‘em
both
in the fuckin’ teeth.

direct to dvd

what will
be revealed
to me
if i watch
the uncut version?

afeert

ya gotta not
be skeert of death
‘cause when you’re skeert
you cain’t live.