All I know, is all I know.

Maybe, Mama Jean.

The day was, at least, only muggy warm,
pregnant with rain that came only in dawn,
and still it gives quiet maybe-warnings,
maybe-rumbles.

Heavy, soundless yawn.

We looked at new digs today,
cat-pee and crumble-paint,
did not scare us away.

Maybe.

Things are hard to figger,
sometimes. Maybe.

Mama Jean comes in from porch-steps,
motor-purr, solidarity.

Friends arriving, from out of town,
at seven or eight, maybe, nine,
now, ten. Eleven.

Maybe.

I need to paint.
There are paintings, booked,
to be painted. There is a limp, the these-days,
in my stride. Marring my handsome.
Burring my strut-some days.
God in my ear says that time is running away,
and no amount of youthful all-fine,
will rip that from me.

God said it.

Maybe.

Tomorrow, I screw screen-door on.

Evening, fourth of July, from America.

Today, I am like,
voodoo doll,
Or like,
recipient of
voodoo doll might,
or do.
My body does not,
heed my beck,
to light.
Or does not meet,
my need,
to move.

When you are not here.

You should be with us,
feeling like we do.
-perry farrell

We sleep in desperate position,
junkies for cool breezes.

The cats will not come in after dark,
for, presumably, they have found dim recesses,
corners perfect for hiding from day.

Nooks, I imagine, accessible to,
apparently, nocturnal birds,
cicadas, things caught easily,
and three, four times a night;
things to brag about,
in insistent howl,
waking me in practiced transition,
from panic to praise.

I paint, talk to the radio,
cats.

Feathers, from predawn kill,
litter my hair,
the hallway.

We loll, naked, in your absence,
as we do,
when you are here,
only now, in silence,
save for panting,
and, unaudienced sigh.

We strongarm melting hours,
taking slow advantage,
to light wood with color;
that we can hold high,
heads,
when you come home.

Here-we-ares.

The cats, they lay in exasperated recline,
collapse, really, as if see-the-day-through
seems over-the-top.

I know.

But I explain to them, that they are mistaken.
That even this too-much-heat is not-so-bad.

That, we are strong.
That we have been bitten,
by scorpion, by fears-of-fears,
by danger-pits-in-darkness,
that, listen, we are stronger.

Let us stand, with sinew and pump-fist,
let us say, we are the okay-kind.

Okay-kind.

Our own world.

Oh, Wyatt. Right on.

Floor level me.

My ankles, are, I don't know,
so much more sore, than any sore I've ever known,
broken, maybe, in little pressure breaks, like
you dancers and jocks seem so sure about,
so glib in hindsight, like medals, like yeah,
like to brag about, compare about,
like I hate. Like, I've avoided for this reason,
because fuck this. I was skinny and active before
this. So, take your little challenges and carb
whatevers, and put them in a hospital file
with all the other things that hurt, and, if you
can bend, have a seat, let me regale you with,
how now, as I write this, my belly hangs over my
belt, and my ankles wrapped in gauze, and, unrelated,
my haircut is busted, and I screamed at the mirror
today, and broke part of it, and maybe, things, are,
spiraling,
a little bit, out of control.

We roll.

I can feel your beating heart,
little bird,
I'm scared, too.
If I pretend
everything is,
like, cool,
then,
are we cool?

Little mama.

Little mama,
there's a flower in the hallway,
says, why don't you come meet me,
sometime?
Little mama,
I'm so sorry,
for the times that I was,
mad.
I know,
that I bring the black days,
on.

And all I know, is all I know,
is all I know.
And I know, I know.
And all I have seen,
is misery.
Seems to get the best of me.
Hey mama,
hey mama,
let me know.

Hey mama,
there's a tiny sound,
in the back of my head.
It says, ooh! oh!
And the birds are chirping!
And I laid down in the bed,
and I said,
ooh! I close my eyes
and I will wait for morning rise,
and then I said,
ooh weh hee ooh hey!

Mama, I been searching for so long.

I seen you come along,
seen you made me happy.
I seen that things gone wrong,
we both fall down.
Oh! Can we come up together?
I don't know.
'Cause you made me someone,
you no longer want to know.
'Cause you made me be someone,
who turn you down,
who made you sad,
brought you down,
made you mad,
we fought along the way.

And I don't know.
I dont know.
And I don't know.
Well, I don't know,
and I don't know.

Holler.

Holler. Hallelujah.
Lately, I been trying to
holler to you.
I know that I get down, but,
I'll be alright for now.

Promise that you'll call
next time you come to town.

I promise you,
all the drinks will be on me,
and thanks for the company.

Seems the rain has stopped
for now,
guess I'll be heading out.

This.

"this is what a ghost is"

I talk to me.

The scale tells me I am 17 pounds heavier,
than a year ago. And two years older.
I do not play guitar, very much.
I am not painting enough.

There is a tiny switchblade,
inside my gut.

My brain is making some plan,
but in secret, so I only
know that it is every excited,
and that is not enough information,
because my brain can get
very excited
for bad reasons.

From bones.

We stayed at a hotel, in a psychic town, that claimed
to be haunted, where once inside, we were all lulled
into immediate sleep, and I awoke, haunted by the
surety that I had wasted my life, and these words:
this is what a ghost is.

Finest kind.

If a knock came at the door,
selling finest whiskey, or, better,
yet, finest cigars, I would buy them.
All. Then.
Those. I suppose, in defiance,
of your shortsightedness.
I cannot tell you, tonight, this tonight,
this rainsome, lonely night,
how it feels, to spend such stretches
alone, because you know such solitude
only in adventure. Because you successfully
avoid this mute prolong. Perhaps you miss out,
perhaps I permit myself agony.
Perhaps, you are the kind to defy my wisdom.
Perhaps, I am the kind to throw it away.

Rain.

How oft I misremember.

I can.

Scarves.

They are not allowed to wear them outside.

April, come she will.

I stare at cloudless skies,
waiting for them to warm.

Rusty Perros.

If you were a woman,
and I was a man, and
you enjoyed kissing me,
holding my hand,
and laying in bed,
and making big plans, like,
where will we live
where we'll never know cold,
and let's stay together
until we are old,
and all of the years after that,
then,
I think that we should do that.

Monkeys, all.

The robot is turned on now,
and he, at last, then,
warms us so.
And the cats come,
when we call them home.
And we make feast,
from raw milk cheese,
and spelt flour, chocolate,
broth from bones.
And fitting hip to hip
we sail in sky or sea,
and glow like coal,
two rocket ships, us,
made to fit together,
pino, he loves carrot,
she loves monkey,
he loves we.