we saw an upright creature
that did not seem to be a bear

we saw the coils of a serpent
rising, falling on the surface
of the lake

we saw an animal
on two legs
with great wings

we saw an owl
the size of a man
dressed in a business suit

we saw
other upright creatures
with great fortunes
walking among us
as if they were familiar
with how we lived

we saw a yeti
in a cafe
speaking well of Noam Chomsky
while drinking fair trade coffee

we saw money we were owed
in the paws of chupacabras

we saw the Mendes goat
playing dominoes

we saw an equation
that measured Nessie
covering a chalkboard
while a posse of swamp apes
debated its nature

we saw compassionate
border patrols of mothmen
floating over the Rio Grande

we knew these were the legends of old
the monsters of the imagination

we saw in the margins of old maps
the words “here be dragons”
and recognized our surroundings
at once

dirty man
dark as this old house
with a chicken coop tumbled
down back

musty fellow
grime and shabby thought
big round hands
bald eyed and wanting
a shave
a pill
a clean mind
first stoop bound
then through the thin door

if i can get a home
i can get a job
if i can get a job
i can keep a house
if i can keep a house
i can keep chickens
then chickens
will keep me

shard of a man
now in the coop

the small curled feathers
on the gray floor
like shavings from a plane

they made some things here
i could too

squat man
spreads blanket

if i can stay here
i can stay here
if i can stay here
i can stay here
can stay here
if i can
if i can maybe
be home
with chickens
to keep me
keep me
keep a home

I’m not planning on dying
yet — indeed, at all, if I
can help it.  I plan to
cast myself in hollow resin,
build robotic pumps and filters
for the insides,
and stay hooked into the grid
in lieu of having a brain,
memories, human
connection.

I can exist, I think,
without eyes for new beauty
and ears for novel sounds —
I’ve seen and heard quite enough,
thank you.  Food’s
a distraction and a crutch,
so here’s an unregretted good bye
to taste, and 
what my skin has taught me
has been mostly treacherous.

But, oh, the nose —

I don’t know how to 
lose that forever;
I don’t know
how to live
without these scents
that drag up specifics,
that cause recoil and 
draw me into events
and people I would not 
have otherwise known:

a red onion left too long on a plate.
The vague odor of the trash.
The neck after swimming.
The firepit next door.

How shall I set myself free
of these
without knowing the ends
of the stories?

Stay strictly
humane — do no
harm.  Gentle
the way through.

Leaper? No,
crawler.  Stay close
on your belly to
soil.  Get stained.
Low eye level
is universal enough.

Believe not in the 
door, but in the hinge. 
Value not the leaving, but
the bag you carry
upon leaving —

stay close to the earth
and see what you make
of the view, the filthy slither
ahead, the gentle
way through.  Do no harm,
especially not
to your self. 

It is hard to fathom
that such soft edges
could draw such a large volume
of blood, but there it is, 
a straight cut perfect line
across the thumb,
spilling red onto the desk.

Paper can be
a most dangerous weapon —
but let’s not go down the route
of discussing bad laws and treaties,
warrants, evil books and screeds.
Those are all beside the point
that begs to be made here:
that those thin sheets
can open skin as easily
and cleanly as any knife.

I’ve done my share of bleeding
from well angled paper.
I’ve felt how much wince
a cut can deliver. 
I’ve done the slightly horrible thing,
pressing the lips of the wound
to make the flow burst and bubble
and drip onto the dropped page
leaving me on it to stay.

I’ve tossed a few of those pages —

but in my notes, in my files,
more than a few remain
with a dirty word or two upon them,
written after they’d dried;

each dated, brown cups
where the droplets fell
rippling the plane of the sheets,
ink laid right over them
describing my cursing, my
hissing expressions of pain,
my self-described idiocy
in plain view there.

Tonight, though,
there was no paper to stain.
The cut came from
something being read,

and so I wiped it up,
and kept on typing,
hoping this is enough
to remind me of the past
when I had visible reminders
of how much this work
can hurt. 

This decade
you adore?
I wasn’t around for it.

I was born in time to see it,
was here for all ten of its years,
but I missed it completely.

Where I was, 
we were living 
differently.  

We didn’t have
the luxury of it.
Didn’t know

the slang of it.
Didn’t wear
the style of it.

Whatever
you loved of it
washed right past us

while we were staying
up late with 
occupying forces

and famines.
We made do,
got by.

We were not
part of
the fabulousness.

So I don’t know
your markers,
your symbols,

your retro chic.
When you say
what I’m wearing

is some geeked out
cool, ghetto
fabulous, hipster

sacred — well,
this is what I brought 
with me to this place.  

I had no idea
that this was
worthy of note;

it’s just some
of the little I saved.
So be it, then.  Well and good.

But I cannot help
but think that 
had you been present 

in my decade
instead of yours,
these words you use

to explain old clothes
would not be part
of your vocabulary now.

Ending now
a pursuit of knowledge
I once demanded,
I light up with the smile
of an idea: maybe
I know enough
to carry me forward
from here. Perhaps
there’s no need to sample
further, perhaps there’s no 
reason to inspect and codify
each speck and moment.
There are so many birds
and songs in the world,
so many people to know
that perhaps I should stop
and assume I’ve had enough
of them all, that any new experience
can be understood through applying
what I already know.  
This is perfect: I’ve grown tired
of unrelenting.  

Exhausted,
I lay me down on a cool bed
in this well ordered place,
and cease dreaming, comfortable
at last.

Don’t you fear
that the battle we’re waging
is lost already?  
Already the sky’s red
with our cities burning,
with tearing rockets unstitching the night.  
Already the sea is lost
and the earth is awash
in spilled oil and blood;
already we’ve all lost good sense,
can’t explain why we’re still fighting,
other than to say we must
if only to keep
from slaying ourselves
in despair.  

And yet we stand
armed and ready,
armed to the teeth
on behalf of what will not return;

and yet we are here,
frontline desperate,
rear guard
desperate,
hands slippery,
feet horned and howling,
guts open to the fire.  

Here we are.  We still
fight, fall in love, fight,
bear children, fight, fight,
sling our fists balled up against
the incoming, sing, fight,
keep a bulletproof coat of colors
on the back door for going out,
wear it out to fight, say
we look good, look like warriors,
the cause is lost but now we’re found
in the war, the war, we’re here
for the war, we’re here,
here in certain harm’s way,
here, regardless of the urge
to give up, raising children 
not to give up even though
the war’s lost
and we have nowhere
now to be.  

this drink’s
cold enough
for the thirst I have now

but in an hour?
will it be cold enough
for the thirst I know will grow
the more I drink?

it’s like my hunger
that gets quiet on crackers
now 
but will holler like a stevedore
in the night
awakening me
demanding entire cows — 

the more easily I’m satisfied now
the less satisfiable
I’ll be
later