COYOTE BLOOD

Clown to Clown Conversations

she sends me poetry

via text messages at midnight.

does she know I love her?

Charlie does the same thing,

and I love him, too.

he knows this much is true.

we all dance and dawdle

on down to death.

together, alone.

we are just clowns

having conversations.

covering up our fears.

with words,

we hold on to each other.

I love it here

I am in no hurry to die,

despite what my drunken 20s conveyed.

In the eyes of the universe,

I am but a blip,

but in my eyes,

the universe is mine.

another war,

another me.

time marches on,

and I am lost in the maze,

wearing alligator boots,

dancing to ska music.

make it last forever,

I ask.

Why Did the Goose Cross the Road?

there was a goose in the road,

out front of the Target,

and it caused a hilarious

traffic jam of Subarus.

it was a little moment

of levity,

in a month of bad news.

we all had to wait

for the goose to cross the road,

and it made me happy,

because you couldn't do anything but laugh.

even the meathead

in the lifted truck

gave a good shrugging smile.

a fuck and a peep

she wore overalls

without a shirt.

her side boob

was giving me the business.

I wore a Black Sabbath t-shirt

for Easter.

she made the coffee,

I made the toast.

I burned it again,

but we made the most.

she fed me a pink peep,

marshmallow and sugar.

we fucked in the kitchen

before guests arrived.

she then hid eggs

for the kids.

later, she came downstairs

in my Black Sabbath shirt.

“This is what we became."

Leaning into the joys of daydreamy drift.
“Sometimes you need to be distracted to focus in a different way.”

Spat out into midwinter at short notice.

"Channeling my wrath into the cataclysm."

Together, they definitively answer the question.

"What do we see when we close our eyes at night?

Riis Beach in September

new theater,
falling asleep to philosophy,
trusting God’s plan,
humble about my golden fleece
dyed with shellfish blood,
but I keep my faith hidden
behind my knelt knees.

other ways of wishing

listening to joanna newsome

between seamless dreams,

one hundred of which

were without numbers.

I am a dead man

falling asleep over dandelions,

looking to the past

to scatter the future.

all my aura

is assigned to time,

the one resource

that is irreplaceable.

meet me every afternoon

for high tea and low blues,

just a dash of me,

and a lot of you.

Flail Hammer

been practicing my signature again

like it's middle school math class

and I am distracted in the back.

my handwriting is atrocious,

ironic for a writer,

but not for a serial killer.

not scared today

which is a rarity,

yet my emotions compete.

the hours spin in a centrifugal minute

and I hit them with a hammer,

fitting so much of myself into loud silence.

Take your medication and return your shopping cart,

because this episode Five for Fighting is like the perfect high five!

Gimme a Little Peace

Gimme a little Wilson Pickett.

Gimme a little Local Natives.

Gimme the perfect volume

And the windows rolled down

Driving up in the Hollywood Hills

To the Beachwood Cafe.

Gimme a little Harry Styles.

Gimme a little Aldous Harding.

Gimme the devil’s invitation

To glimpse heaven

And live to talk about it

Over coffee.

Gimme a little break from death.

Give me many things on the horizon’s hill.

A Middle Finger to the Moon on a Monday Noon

Led by my spirit
Away from the wound…

No saints on Saturdays
So I wait for something…

I sit in the park, hit the vape,
meet a new lover…

Can’t finish this book,
Can’t finish this puzzle.

My aspect maybe dim,
But I want my two years back!

Hit Me On The Hip

aww, you finally updated your Instagram avatar

from the one screenshot I took of you years ago,

and aside from the Boston Red Sox hat

you look pretty damn fit.

I am always over here, hoping you get fat and gross,

which is mostly out of egotistical selfish spite,

because I have cancer again yet here I am

writing dumb poems about you still.

if you read this and hesitate in the slightest,

I ask is that you not dismiss that—

at least for ten seconds—and try to dwell in it,

and then call me.

Playlist 32726

1. Agony Freak by Snail Mail

2. Wish You Could See Me I'm Killing It by The New Pornographers

3. Against the Dying of the Light by Jose Gonzalez

4. Party Line by Paula Kelley

5. Mostly Patient by Courtney Barnett

Got to talk hoops and talk shit with the homie Charlie Paulson of the band Goldfinger!

Certain Specific Collar Bones

There's something about her collar bones

that have stayed in my bastard brain,

and every time I crash on a couch

starring up at the stucco ceiling

I think about simply kissing them.

Rewind Water

you can’t rewind water—
it runs past you
like it’s late for something

men try anyway,
with photos,
with whiskey,
with stories that get softer
each time they’re told

but the river doesn’t care
how beautiful you once were
or how close you came
to figuring it out

it just keeps moving—

and somewhere in the current
there’s a version of you
laughing too loud,
still alive,
still not thinking

Love Being Lonely

Jerked off.

Thought of Grace.

Wrote a poem.

Watched Seinfeld.

Fell asleep.

Dreamed of graves.

Woke up.

Again.

Hell yeah, I made soda bread, y'all!

I am so glad you never pick up...

Because then we don't have to

talk about cancer or us,

or pretend while shaking nervously

only to hang up with more questions

and butterflies in the belly.

Poem

and then the inward whisper—

no, not whisper, a soft electric insistence—
of the body’s secret parliament,

cells conspiring in dim corridors of blood,
a small rebellion dressed in silence,
and I, still seated, still watching, still revising the sentence,
as if by arranging words just so
I might persuade the dark to behave.