A blue baby
Breaks his mother with the birth.
A lazy looming,
Lingers above the hospital room.
Baba’s babes off the coast
Boast that they know the most.
There is the child,
Yellow and mild.
Barely born, and wild.
I fell for
The brush of hair,
To reveal the thinnest chain.
With an empty stare
And how quick a smile fades.
Then it ended as it began;
Just as easy,
With a head turn.
The Blue Hour
Why did everyone’s dog die the same year
Ain’t it clear
The sound crushing fear
I mourn that season lost
The winter I couldn’t get across
How cold it really felt
Oh this coat is too thin
Under the sunset subtle skin
Oh who the hell let you in
From the island of Nebraska
When I see you,
All I can think of is food and fire.
From the tops of your yellow butter hills
That drip oil into cast iron black roads.
It spills from the pan, soaking into the grass and chewing tobacco
Feeding those sausage finger trees.
This is a well-fed, meaty forest, of cows and food processors.
A thin river of thick gravy bisects the overflow of land.
Meanwhile, a cigar car nearly cleans the sidewalk,
And the accident reeks of barbeque.
Somewhere a burning belly of Busch Light
Bellows itself out into the night.
Tips from the poet’s muse (a love letter slipped under the door)
Don’t you dare
To a sunrise. Or
Or to flowers from the garden,
In bloom or wasting away.
Don’t say I’m the snow
Or the rain. I don’t match any kind
of color. Please don’t dream of me crying.
Or, wonder where I wander.
Don’t call me baby, just
Don’t call me at all.