become majestic

unblood the unkempt ingot
with hands above the footspent cattycomb
the weirdcake, the handwren

open up her millerjar
spoon out the hoperain
become majestic

white whistle why

the white whistle
spelled past me --
a bone of continent --
a bore of contentment --
and examined the room.

the sound was
(where?)

this part of tomorrow

remembering how you lost a suit

Chicago

that which cleaves apart
and that which cleaves together.
that party that you
now don't remember.

your friend's brother's friend's
place. with some saucy blonde.

bet they don't have to worry
about rude Koreans without carpets
living above them.

the white whistle. but this wasn't
a race thing. just a phrase that came
to me in the park. the white wistful-
ness plague. the white-whale-pursuit-
problem.

"gotta find that girl and make her
mine," goes that refrain in the
eye of man. graduation speeches,

basketball games. bedtime.

'no reason to despair'

This book is called "no reason to 

despair." Look at the clouds, the 

persimmons in the corner of the 

yard. Who is this moloch casting 

eyes at faces? Who is this weath-

ered man sitting on the edge of the windowsill 

waiting for the baby to let go of her welt 

i've been born before

i shall be borne again

from here to where? 

here to wherever 

alacrity, amongst us, 

a peering boy crawling toward the rain. 

i don't have any hope for myself.

i've been in the dust too long. 

time to lick myself clean. there was a 

time when i wrote things that made it 

sound like there was a deep ferment 

inside of me and maybe there was. 

wrote about shit and puss. but there's 

a newness, a phantom, a miasma. 

i've attained a level of playing, a field

with weapons on it. grass and stuff, 

cured meats and grappling hooks. 

look out of every window in the gardenshed, 

do what you will with your money. i don't 

care where you park your raincoat. 

but i do care where 

we have today begun

insisting upon this 

task-at-hand. believe. 

what happens in the small 

yellow house by the train tracks

or what happens to the black man

walking past, 

toward me, toward the crook of this 

particular streambed, angled left 

and west, out of spoonbill territory and 

headed east, further out of the continent

where men rest in beds with sand 

in their mouths and bless, bless, bless 

themselves for these gifts, non-ordinary, 

given and granted ad hominem, forever. 

(Train from Chicago to Champaign, IL. 04 April 2015)

The roar at the end of the world

The roar at the end of the world 

is the road at the edge of the cliff

is the calming warmth of a mother 

packing her belongings up, and leaving. 

Yes, I've heard you do it before. That 

was many years ago when the road heaved

up from the lowlands to become highlands. 

The muck descended, the hard warm 

rock strata rose. There is no alarm,

no chalice. This is ancient land, ancient 

feelings. People without electronic means 

of communication. Analog aliens. Primates

with bones and throes and hands. Wringing? 

I'm crouching in the bush waiting for a clear

shot at an animal I'd like to eat. This is the 

way of our ancestors. The animal lives 

in the open, in the forest, eating fish, 

and it is part of life. To take other life. 

To make a living. To dart and to hide, to 

love and to beget kin. To be sexual. To 

love asunder, to fight and climb and 

endure sunburns. To know the plants 

and all of their charms. To help yourself 

to the (      ) embrace of the world.


[Champaign, IL. 06 April 2015]