Saturday, October 29, 2011


There are only the branches
I tore from my hair to give you
when the night goes churlish
and retires in whispers cluttered as vapor.

Our lives as something resembling
ice packs on a bad knee scraped and
scratched with branches bearing
reasonable wounds for part time warfare.

This is a hat trick I pulled in a carnival game, a stick joint hawking English pool shots to nit wits groaning with local beer, the dime toss across the way was knock about and the flattest store I ever saw, some guy, old and gnomey in his money belt and raincoat, bellow to the moon, drowning out the gasoline purr of the generators before and after the flash goes on and off the fish net.

I lived around here
when there was a barber shop
with magazines that hadn't been
changed since the switch from daylight
savings time some thirty years earlier.

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