Live Nude Poems

  Internal Suffocation I'm an adult so I'm allowed to watch as many horror films as I choose. Some people say that has a bad effect on my brain. I do sometimes have violent dreams, but the last disturbing dream I had based on a movie was re-seeing the rape scene from Boys Don't Cry, which was based on a real life hate crime. Sometimes I like some extremity in movies and art because I can turn them off, turn them back on, re-interpret them, revise them, re-analyze them,  do whatever I want with them.  Other times I can't control what my own mind sees or what happens to me. Sometimes my mind exaggerates things. Other times it blocks things out. Sometimes my brain cells discharge  uncontrolled electrical activity. Sometimes it's not up to me. When it is, I'll watch whatever I want to, whether it's based on real life or exaggerated make believe. Internal Suffocation  I know what's starting to happen. I've heard this before, this wooshing inside my brain ...

Somebody likes me! Three poems worth: Parkinsonism; Sonnet for So and So; Hollywood Appalachian Noir: A Lesson.

I would have said on the Mule, but I didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. These are part of the last couple year's work. Poems . Still radio silence until we get moved into the new house, where I will have an entire room full of books. My library, finally.

Three sort of sonnets.

I like my poems; I guess that's all I can say about them. They're not for everybody. When the Wrong Words Get Said Car-tire against gravel, rough smell of beer and roasted corn, heat-lightning like a sine wave loops across a pit of gray sky between pole-light and the quiet barn; the low of cows, moonshine slips in like a tongue through the treeless hedge fence; the empty faces of women glow, a child in shirtsleeves gums an apple while the mutt runs a rough circle around the feet of your friends, pissing every time someone raises a hand. Your wife says fuck it. Goes to bed. Shuts the door. Says go ahead and drink. Be with your friends. Wrong words get said. Your head breaks like a fist against a stone wall, knuckles feeding fire. Somewhere the swollen lips of angels call you home, but before you go smash-mouthed in to the house to watch your kids breathe, stagger into your marital bed, you tongue-kiss a seventeen-year-old, realize the sweetness i...