Let the Words

all these notes and keys hit them right and hard notes and keys that sing music that's unending milks poured on brown skin and I love him for it that image, that sense of completeness and injustice radiator won't turn off miles and miles of highway, yellow and white lines run though visions like hazy streamers sweating, no money, must sleep skin's sticky and flaccid, bed's dented others have lied here, hitting keys hard and right to make them sing there's that field that's like cold milk poured over my skin gray rocks of Canada meeting rolling acres of the world's daisies and tufts of dandelion heads, her curves cool and a smirk that rolls and rolls horizons licked by rich creamy evening skies motions and notes that will never die here's the heat, droplets that parade through hairy legs and you've fallen asleep and the heat and this hate this distant loneliness and this ridiculous field and your body, all these keys and notes and not a song to sing a

Watchful eye of a whale 'Yes, very much like a whale' distorted reflections, the foolishness of appearance. My body is a wave becoming the sky 18 feet tall, giant narrow head genitalia indistinguishable "This is our church," she said, "without the alter or the people and their prayers" Something seen is consumed. It observes until its dried up and dead Walking in the eye of the earth mud is stirred, slimy stones, a stie Water's judgment will only kill you if you breath its mercy, a stupid sin a babies baptism is for the urine and shit not her soul Blessed be this hot water tank, may it sprinkle the healing grace of Christ our savior while masturbating in the shower "Seminary's not for you perhaps" Sitka Spruce eyelashes only sway, no blinking Early morning swim through vitreous humor high in beta-carotene A vision that's 40 feet deep and a mile wide no prescription necessary Living life, constantly scrutinized by a judgment that's c

Blessed are the rich in pocket for theirs is the kingdom of wealth Blessed are the scornful for they shall be rewarded Blessed are the war mongers, for they shall plunder and inherit the earth Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for resources for they shall be satisfied politicians Blessed are the wrathful for they shall obtain the goods of others Blessed are the weak of heart and mind for they shall walk the corridors of power Blessed are the unmanned drones for they shall kill the Children of Pakistan Blessed are they who persecute others for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

"After the first death, there is no other." Least not for the daughters and sons wrapped gently by earth's cool cocoon Those left near the mounds, gaunt and quiet, return time again, sinful and sorry, angry at the fury of life, the rate at which it burns. Theirs are guilty deaths of continuation, a chalice of blood and fire, sustenance for fornication, vigor and nightly schemes. Yet, here, among grassy Fields and weeping angels, a silent empty penance must be paid. While corpses rot below, they murmur supple hopes and fumble with shadows, knowing deaths To come, least not their own. No, Dylan, your first death was far before the grave. Mourning is a pause and timid acceptance of the many deaths yet to come Least not your own.

Life is a barren field Frozen with snow Rise and wake with the morning frost. Stumble round the money tree. Stare and groan, sigh a fog of breath into the empty air grovel for riches Hobble 'til streams of ice rub your bones. Embrace hypothermic dreams Life is a barren field frozen with snow Where we wander and die, crippled by blind cold pride and fear of mediocrity

Amber lights intoned and churning batteries are charging, flowing electricity on the dreary docks A man talks to his wife in the rain clutching his cell with pasty hands He'd asked me about the boat earlier how much, does it run well Penta, expensive parts, not mine, never taken her out, no not once Pointless dribble like oily rainbows This man talks to his wife in the rain he rocks with the wakes of the passing boats, churning in a hurt and desolation that is sure to come Night grows thin, blankets of mist and fog roll like warm dough over aluminum, fiberglass, and old wooden boats sinking steadily to curious alien shrimp The Madra Delarosa takes him back after begging and pleading have become empty whispers to an ear that's become all hate and malice Deloarosa's red and green running lights are flicked off. She sways and moans quietly accepting the indifference of the coming morning

Trees sway in my mind while I hack and eat away her skin needles litter the floor, green green ferns speckle white light wildly "I am the end," breath pouring over warm peach skin cradled within the nape of her neck Sappho screams into darkness flesh aflame, "A refining fire has made me blind." The Rose of Sharon, a pile of ashes "A kind of beginning," grasp the running river with its weeping willows, "roll with the body taken by the current." Yokes of hunger and need plow spring time fields plump with sin Lilly of the Valley, we kiss and pray upon your luscious leaves. Sappho was a prophet of this avarice.

we'll break the red wagons we rode, screaming down grassy hills, cheap plastic wheels rolling across urban streets Again We'll take spruce boughs and moss, hide in the woods, watching droplets of rain trickle down each others faces Again We'll race breakwater boulders, climb into holes and etch silly odes of love and hate that no one will read Again I'll regret ever wanting to grow older again and again

In determining the evolving application of the 8th Amendment and the constitutionality of the death penalty there seems to be two blatant obvious facts before us. First, there are no mitigating factors of death - there is no reversal, when you are dead you're dead. This is a form of absolutism. The due process of law ends at death. Second, and this seems to be a theme the last two weeks, we all recognize the imperfect Judicial system - there appears to be a wide consensus on this fact. What do you get when you put together an imperfect judicial system with an absolute punishment? Injustice, weather purposeful or not, someone is going to get screwed. Since the re-installment of the death penalty in 1976 over 1,100 individuals have been executed throughout the United States (http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/number-executions-state-and-region-1976). Can we, as a rational and democratic society, honesty say that we trust that all of these executions were just? Can we overlook the racial

Eight, maybe nine, young anyway. dirt and finger nails twilight morning, furnace dying late summer, long days, skin smells of peanut butter and alder leaves Metallic penny tastes, toy airplane, flying silently in hand, pilot child, soaring over silence, breath sleep steady Chipped linoleum, caked mud darting sparrows, grumbling four-wheelers, wispy circles of wind Barefoot grass with dew Let children play in their waking dreams

I made a salad with Washington greens today. Deep pocketed businessmen and pock faced politicians assure me of their healing powers Those who've suffered the yoke of power who've swallowed first world trash who've kissed the marbled asses of corruption aaaa to compete, to survive Who've sucked the sour nectar of poverty Fear not! Dip yourselves in vats of cash aaaa to heal your wounded land and mind Those who've proffered from smiling deception Who've banged the proverbial capital whore aaaa just one more time Who've wielded wealth like a sword, beheading aaaa anyone in your way Who've danced to greed while golden towers aaaa tumbled down Fear not! Dip yourselves in vats of cash aaaa to heal your bleeding pride and pockets A little dressing on these greens gives quite the zing. Swallow down our shallow penance, and pray to god that a trillion or more will save our souls

Having strayed far from art Oh, Marvell. Oh, Donne. Oh, Jonson and Sometime Wyatt, forgive our modern blunt Orgies of words Pastoral shepherds are dead, so much for their snatch of sweetness to dampen their want Pining poets deflowering tulips have been shot for their vague caresses, loitering near the iron gates of life Mowers grip their flaccid scythes in death, forgotten and rotten are their hot July desires No. No need to complain in metered rhyme just to be denied. Give it to us straight and hard We'll take it all the same

Ocean winter water sloshes around my gut. Words feel as slime does just before vomit These markers. Those crayons. I've lost somewhere somehow Cold dew drops on beer cans cursed morning pangs Donne dammed the sun but let it all be over and done These markers. Those crayons. I've lost somewhere somehow Distractions smell of erections tastes of strawberry nipples, dance like colliding flesh and sound of prayer and damnation These markers. Those crayons. I've lost somewhere somehow Days pile upon hours suffocating minuets devouring each second fucking every moment of breath These markers. Those crayons. I've lost somewhere somehow Stalk naked through houses tracing invisible faces upon empty halls, licking their silance These markers. Those crayons. dried up and nowhere to be found

Boarder Collie whimpers Wanting sunshine lapping With winter waves on January shores. Acidic Liquid billows mildly Coffee pot grumbles and trickles Its morning chore. Patriots the world round carry Heavy metal duties that burst Into flame. One kills a Muslim, another a Christian Palestinians scream, Jews roar, Americans Rant All cry for their troubles. Early light silhouettes ancient alder trees Eagles and seagulls flaunt themselves Paper kites swirling over ocean mirrors Barrow’s Goldeneye bobbles, flecking Water from its angular tux, watching Honey illuminate the Chilkat range A flock of green headed Mallards dips Deftly beneath – sounds of rain drops They call each other nasally quacks A million or more gathered, heaping Their hopes on the shoulders of a Slender well spoken man whose words Billowed through the throngs like a giant “America’s ready once more.” White caps are kicked up from a northerly Wind. Bulbous and fluffy cumulus clouds Lumber lazily, while thin icy shee