TOO MANY TOOTHS AND TWO LITTLE TRUTHS

I pulled the tooth out of the compost
pile, not because I had to, but because
it was there, I had to. I imagined
it was the tooth of a dinosaur.

The compost pile smelled
like a compost pile.

The tooth smelled
like a compost pile.

Every year or two I wonder
why I pulled the tooth out.

I never wonder how it got there in the first place.

Five or six years ago I lost the tooth.
By which, I mean, I flushed it down the toilet.

I flushed it down the toilet because I was afraid
that if I simply threw it in the trash,
I would dig it back out.

The trash smelled like compost.
The toilet smelled like toilet.
The tooth is gone forever.
The compost is now a garden
Dying it's fall death.

life and death on a slider scale

if you held out your hand i'd slap it
nicely, of course in the gesture of a high
five. in the morning i woke up and smoked
a cracker jack ship of dreams
squeezed into teenage jeans and addict
schemes. your sleeze isn't as hidden
up your sleeve as you would like
us to believe, so just be brief
in your freedom and free in your
bevy of unwashed hand
clasps.
your button is rubbing my thigh
bone and causing a cloud of pink
on my white fleshy man bits.
i know, right?
no, i know no right, just know wrong.
wrong is a lot easier to get right
and be sure of it.
right is decades of tests before answering and still not knowing if the final plunge will plunge us all into death. i like death, but not as much as i like life. i like life because of lifes relationship with death, what's to like about life if it isn't at risk EVERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY OF EVERY YEAR OF EVERY DECADE? well nothing probably.

feelin' iffy spiffy?

if i had to nail my worth
to a word, shiver in it's
decrepit/silent/still falling
world, i'd follow lonely
women home from the hospital.
i'd be afraid of death.

i'd be afraid of death,
if every time it returned i felt
closer to the reality of a life
coalesced in the secrets between
here and maternity wardens.
i'd be afraid of living.

if i had to nail my sword
to a wide swath of land, defended
by my own hand's will to keep
working/falling/scraping/kneeling
before eternal sunrise light
i'd be afraid of nothing, but night.

TALK JIVE!

who got time to shoe shine
line up your chalk head get a fix
on that fixture. it's thicker then beaver fur
down by the river, who shot naughty nate
nasty nate's brudda, been drownin here
ya'll got a beer, hopped up on hop-scotch
single blend'll mend that head like a toothache
comin' on from that shit you comin' off
black smack, that's brown shit, dat ain't no fit for a king
ring or sing a thing bling
ya'll don't know a thing, just think ya do, damn fool.

creedles a pinwagon deluxe makeup kitbag

fuck you. punchbag.
punch your fuckbag face.
needles and pins
and coldcream compresses
on stitched up inches of face.
saturday nights alright for laying.
your alright, we're all alright.
so quit acting like you're not.
it's not your psyche that's off,
it's your philosophy on life.
you expect to get something out of life.
well you can't.
fuckface.

depends(it's more then just a diaper rash razer)

it's cold out
and the wind is cutting through the tops of the trees
the roots, the whole of the timber stand
snearing back, like a lost thought, run over
and over and over run.

what depends on me is dependent on me
and i depend on nothing, but that depends
on how independent i feel, and well, i just never have
felt the need to disappear completely, just completely disappear
in a temporary way.

laughter is sunning itself on the golden rock hard reason
of a two cent pickup truck sticker of unlicensed calvin
pissing on artist's rights.
i piss on artists rights and rightly sew the seeds of disillusion.
so what?

ghost town

in memory there's a pill
i took and forgot everything
so now i walk with my head bowed
and breathe like i can't ever
recall breathing before
and each day i find a new road
and a new soul, growing
old.

-

the colonel came in with a lengthy display of corpses
strapped around his neck
'killed these krauts in the second war' he said
as if there had ever only been two.
as if death were something to be proud of.
as if his soul wasn't already burning in hell.
as if hell hadn't come through the door with him
and followed him
every path he went down.

-

there's a chill on my back
spreading it's web
like the legs of a spider
working overtime
in feverish pitch
to quilt the whole waste-
land midwest.
visions are haunting
the crevices where i kept
my sadness locked up
like the indian in the cupboard
like fall days that meant more
20 years ago,
then they could ever
mean today.
it's too late.
it's too late.
so don't wait,
because i'll never be coming back for you.
20 years to late.