she likes to walk around naked
and talk to gypsies.
she likes it when i sing her to sleep
and my words put ice in her dreams.
and most of all
she likes the songs about snow
i haven't written her yet
they will come in the morning
and melt by afternoon.

she likes to drink firewater
then dance with whoever.
the drunk in her likes everyone.
and most of all
she likes to start singing
songs at the moon.
it's the whiskey that finds the lyrics
she never knew back in the day
when the shit was upon her.
that doesn't matter anyhow;
these days she walks around free.

the moon is like a half-cocked pistol
or a game of russian roulette
and every night it is my life flashing
before these tired eyes
dancing across the sky

and if that is so
then the stars are her slippers
and the wind is a mother
bringing clouds so she can sleep
like all things that grow
need sleep from time to time

and when she dreams she will talk
so i listen and hear her say
when i get where i'm going
it won't be a crime

further to go

it is 2:46 in the morning

and already i regret
this
is not my kitchen
the air is conditioned
her things are everywhere

and already i regret
this
is not my pen
making words ugly

at 2:48 in the morning
my fingers can barely hold it
together
my fingers have forgotten
how to dance

i do not have the right
sort of callouses

to be
here

is like a swimming pool
at night
you think you might see bottom
however the light
is never bright enough

it is possible
you have further to go.

13 steps

i.
i say enough with all the nonsense
it's time to make a better day
i'm sick of waking up to hate the sun
i can't remember what it takes to be real
and sometimes i wonder
if i could learn to see the music
when i forget how to hear

ii.
and sometimes i chase the thunder
just because i cannot bear
to live another day without the lightning
that comes in darkness in the desert
where the ground will soak up all the rain
where you can never know
if it will ever rain again.

iii.
and there was once i held the lightning
in my arms like it was you
and it felt so much like history
and it felt like things were clear
to everyone but me
that we'll never be escaping
we can never really break free
of all the things we could be doing
most will never come to be

iv.
and there's no blame for anyone
no fault to find you can know for sure
the ocean doesn't give a shit
and neither do the beetles
they'll just fly off where they came from
they have no time for disbelief
they have no time to take a break
and stare in wonder

v.
have to say that makes me think
maybe there is no disappearing
maybe there is nowhere
that you can take a stand
maybe all there is to hope for
is that i can find a way to hold you
before the wind makes fools of us
before they come to remind us both
there is no getting out.

vi.
time is passing out of midnight
and it's still a long way to dawn
and there aren't things that you will see there
you don't want to see
and if there are then you won't see them
it will take much more than you can learn
it will take more than you can believe
it will take almost everything

vii.
it will be like breathing underwater
if you make it there i'll meet you
and we'll wake up wondering
how to make a future we can swim
and look we will be letting go
and look we just won't matter anymore
because the truth is always harder
because the word is always sorry
because in the end of all my madness
is the place where you are sane

viii.
and i can hear the wavelengths humming
in the rafters of your heart
i can handle the vibrations
i can sleep until you follow
i can wander while the sun
figures how to see things our way
begins to hear things kind of funny
begins to know there is no change

ix.
and we've been spending all our money
on the things that make us crazy
and we've been spending all our tears
on things that will not disappear
and i know without a doubt
i've been busy making
things i do seem much like shadows
sideways on the face of the moon

x.
and i know there must be somewhere in the dark
that this world can start again
i know it must be easy
when i get there
it must be something like my dreams.
i can't seem to get around
the fact that i've been dreaming
every moment i'm awake

xi.
and i know i make the pathways
that keep leading me astray
except there's no such thing
as all my heart
there's no such thing as rage
i know there's never ever been
a color bright as all my shade

xii.
and if i disappear tomorrow
i know you know i know you know
i know for sure
you will always keep on finding me
i will be inside of souls
i will be inside of bushes
i will be inside the squirrels
i'm already in your syrup
i'm already in your curls

xiii.
and there's no getting round it
one day you'll see what's been missing
you'll wake up in the morning
and see you can't escape
i'm buried deep inside you
and when you sleep you'll find
you're sleeping in my arms

saw

all these tools i have
and i don't have a saw.
i can think of some reasons
      hard to move from place
           to place
      hard to fit in a toolchest.
and so for years now
building things
i depend on the cuttings
of other men
with other ideas for wood.
sometimes i think
there was no idea there.
i can only tear apart
what they have done.
i have no saw.

i have no gun.
some friends say i'm crazy
i just can't see
the point. plenty of guns out
there and if i'm going to kill
i want to kill him with my hands
i want to kill
only if she must die
and i am done
with not killing the meat
i eat from now on
with my hands and a knife
or maybe a saw
i really should get one
think of all the things i could do.

elk river, missouri

i can't tell if the stomach moans
i am hearing come from frogs or cows.
haven't been here long enough.
maybe both.

been here long enough to know
no one comes to this spot accidentally.
the towns in all directions
are not destinations, and that means
quiet

except for the river
and the frogs
and the cows
and all the other noises
i'm learning not to ignore.
the water sounds happy for instance.

now i'm sure
those are cows across the river
and they sound unhappy.
not that i would know
i have no idea
what happens to cows.

the river smells like wet dogs.
that at least i can put my finger on.

is the water one or many?
do all the molecules in the river smell?
these are the questions
you have time
to ask
here
also you can listen
to the smell of a happy dancing elk
river.

northern lights

in motion the noise of your body
drowns the larger silence
so i am quiet, all of me.
not poised, not broken. waiting
because there is somewhere
i am going or maybe
somewheres i am being led
i can never tell
i am waiting for the word

it will come through the cleft in the hills
it will come from the far side of the fields
it will become only a few moments

and then the afterglow
and again the long night
waiting. in the north
the word attacks in waves
slithering through darkened sky
through magnetic minescapes
and the ones that cannot find
their way become color dancing
with light. we can learn

to be cold we can learn
to travel to the thin places
we can learn the great dance
of the words that will never be
and return to the weighted daylight,
wait for straggling words to voice
their sorrows. in the quiet you can hear
them everywhere dancing
in motion the noise of your body.

probably

and you are my favorite
kind of wall, full of holes

looking anxiously for stars.
and tall, too tall to climb

unseriously. tall enough
to stand closer to the sky

and there are trees
growing sideways from your body

and where you have armpits
it is easy to find

animals. i wonder if it is
only my decision to climb,

if you might decide
when i'm halfway up

you don't want me
to see your other

side. for all i know
it is a jungle

i will need to hack through
or full of shadows

hiding from the sun.
probably not.

probably i will climb
just to see you whole.

everything will be wet

rainy days are good
days for the beach

because it's empty.
and the rain

makes shadows dance
on the water like jesus

and forget world peace
just for a second

imagine all this rain
is really wine

oh wash our sins away
and your shoes

so plan ahead.
wear your shoes

into the water
to make them clean.

everything will be wet.

Lately I've been focusing less on poetry and more on writing/recording music. I've set up a website with some songs that can be streamed and/or downloaded, and some new/old poems. Check it out...

periol.com

Also, I'm on the road right now, and driving through Utah last night I heard an ad on the radio that epitomizes every possible stereotype of Utah. It was for a non-gore-filled haunted house (using special effects) located in an Ikea parking lot. The best part? Tickets are $5 a person, but only $20 for the whole family. What a bargain! Perfect for all the wives and kids...

for granted

take any thing for granted,
your dog, for instance,
put him on a new diet

and watch for granted become
for goodness sake.
or learn the left hand

the way you've learned the right,
or feed your brain
and not your body.

feel your heart
without your soul.
take any thing for granted

and you're playing with mind.
take anything for granted.
it's fun like fucking with fire.

mirrorwell

the magic always comes
when you rub the lucky coin
smooth between your fingers
and drop it like destiny
into the well that has no water
something happens in the air
you look inside the mirror
and see everything
everyone else sees
only backwards.

and decide this time
make your own luck.

everything is

the air smells like smoke
and the sun smells like blood
and the flies can sense the rottenness
inside of me. but
when you calculate the odds
and watch the waves for a while
you'll see that if
nothing is left to chance,
everything is.

now the sun has gone hunting
and the new moon is hungry
and stronger than the haze
from the fires. sometimes
when the mood takes
i listen to her lunacy
dancing the waves;
she swears if nothing's ok,
everything is.

red-letter day

not a cloud in the sky
only the invisible stands

between the sun and for me
the birds sing in the present key

there can be no sadness
regarding the past and so forth

the ocean strikes rock
and time carves out his hollows

from the whole and so on
there can be no regret

in the light
everything is alive

and within everywhere
- you.

note to self

write a real poem
that doesn't personify the ocean
that could wake up content.

write about the people
(you work so hard to avoid)
who couldn't afford

this quiet expensive habit
you call a life far away
from car bombs and skyscrapers

and everywhere.
remember everything
that keeps us alive.

periol of asilomar

1.

it has the ring of a fantasy genre cliche,
this name i moved into. upon meeting
and discovering i am indeed human,
you could be excused for thinking
mine was a lonely childhood.

2.

ah the periol of asilomar
eyes crossed somewhere between
pelican and seagull. croaking
at the dawn eating lots of fish.
ogling the moon.

(the waiting just begun)

I started running and the sun
was slitting his face through
the clouds to the west.
The ocean was angry
under a dark pillar of fog
that stood offshore.
What frightening sunset of pastels
gray and orange painting the wet sand
and the very tips of the waves
diving into the rocks.

Put my head down
and kept running
but the fog didn’t move
so I ran along its face.
It flanked the shore,
curving to match the sand
circling the peninsula,
a snake preparing to pounce.
And the water running scared
underneath the dead orange gloom
left over from daylight.

Hot enough to sweat through my shirt
in the afternoon and I ran tired
of the waiting. Surely the mound
of darkness would move
when the land was surrounded.

It hung low like ceiling
and I ran on until the light was dead.

A time for dreaming
(and running turned to walking)
and I noticed for the first time
the fog bleeding off
from the belly
and knew the wait was over

(the waiting just begun).

the night is a mountain
of sound that stands
between us. i know this
because you are not afraid
of the dark. you should be.

the creatures that feature
when the sun goes down
know better. their eyes
are wide to take in
what light is left.

you are a flower
that sleeps for the day
while my ears open wide
to hear deep calling out
skeptical to the deep.

after the rain

a day nothing happened:
gray skies and rain;
sick and quiet.
woodpeckers in the cold
digging through trees.
sleep holding time
like a vise.

no anger
no sadness
no emotion to find
wound in the fog's fist.
people don't come around
more than they ever did
and that's ok
loneliness doesn't leave
when they arrive.

easy to lose track
of time here by the ocean
where birds are not silent
after the rain.

no need to quibble
these waves would kill
without second thought
rushing the shore
like plastic parts run swift
through the assembly line
on a factory floor.

can see no reason
for the anger
except that this is the end
of the line, the water
running into the ground.

watered the backyard trees
the other night
there was a deer grazing
who thought i was the coming
of death and ran
straight into the fence.

i understand.
in the dark i too fear myself
the most of anything.