what knowing wont tell you.

for dana

geologist (and the Navajo) wont tell you, but at the end of cliffs are pleasant places, un-chemical streams

and eagle eggs to eat. I just get sick of the fantasies of my writing life. Like I get sick of the pop-lockers

on Soul Trane forcing their textured goodness thru the empty nineties. Like I get sick of the Post-lady's

stamp-less Christmas cards with my name and practiced address thick as dumb graffiti; upside down

K's. Sideways Y's that spell out why. Midway thru the "Munsters" the poem stayed suspended like a giant man in

stilts,

but gentle. Somewhere on earth between fellowship and felonious, every villainous evil

has an admission.

I still get humbled by fire. Fire trucks. The fireplace (plugged up by rags by the last

m***********s who lived here). Sudden danger. Uncles pipe full of Prince tobacco, the slim

affectionate metallic can  from whom feoffment is made. The seeds he use to cough up at the feet

of us kids as if thru saliva all bearing is given to dirt and direction. There was no mention

on "Wild Kingdom" in the seventies that we were running out of Giraffes. None.

Only that they ate with tiny ears flickering from tall trees; only that their babies hatched

from large striped eggs laid in nests, of canopies dark and transverse.

Opps!

Reviews

[m.s.early]

I believe in between the lines of watching and refusing to believe is where the truth resides. They lie too us more frequently and with greater profit since the invention of the TV you know. They barely let us breathe with any air other than theirs. But alas, there is poetry and it is still hip in some circles to run the gamut of exploding truth.

[kmartell]

Understanding is good when I can have it. Nice like I had/have a friend living under a bridge on the interstate. He died. He really died, not pretending with words, he hung all kind. Of stuff in plastic bags from his handle bars, this is real understanding. He really died, so

Am I a salesman, dealing in words I am not a bit creative or funny, my friend was 58 a few days ago, living just like the rest of us. Feeling his feet inside his shoes, eating at the. Diner. Talking to stray dogs.
O
Getting back: what you wrote is genius to me. Very good, thanks,

[writing mojo]

i get the doppelganger effect you recall through inner space child hood graze, Gigantism and the hear say crowds in an extraordinary circulatory plea, of one being one with everything that can be finished off in cut off sentences..fragmented for those pupa heighten senses never forced in entries, but animistic in the kamikaze comradery of E=mc square to of a worm hole, worn like a Jackie Robinson skull cap zipping by.. as he stole home while fat cat onlookers could only blow smoke..excellent piece

[RileyRedding]

This is transgressive gold right here. The pace is on par with a twelve round (Fight of the Year) prize fight.

[Delmar Cooper]

I cannot comprehend the life of another, or even fully understand descrete parts of it. I can accept an offering of comprehension a twig and clod of understanding, but true title has not passed, livery is ceremonial, and that must be sufficient.