The Hangover Continues

(Inspired yet again by the amazing work of my friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks)

The Hangover Continues

This is no cinematic experience.  This 
is not the morning after.  There is no 
pill to rid us of our pregnant horror.  
These jokes sour in our mouths.

We’ve already missed the party and still 
the vomiting goes on.  Still the nausea 
without relief and every pill to calm 
is yet another emetic.  Every treatment turns 

to the oil of serpents.  A stinging unguent 
of reptiles squirms in the bottle.
Every one proves to be the cheapest 
rotgutmoonshine with a handful of 

healing botanicals tossed in as an 
afterthought to cover the burning 
of the grains, the torching of the crops.
The fire on the corn transforms the heat 

and sweat into blood and fire fed back 
and fed up and poured down gullets
too slack to gag, too full to feel feedback
from the feed bag gulleys until the streets 

run red and blue and black and still the 
vomiting goes on, still the hangover proves
incurable, still the hangover hangs over 
and over and over again and still hopes 

dangle like clouds of cotton candy for
monkeys struck dumb and stuck in cages
for another round, another spin another 
spill upon the pavement and it doesn’t 

matter how many times you stick your 
finger down your throat there is always 
more to come up.  The i.v. is still in the vein.
The feeding tube comes in the back door.

The surge is ass-backwards and the purge 
is impossible.  The source is a spring of sour 
fluids.  The water table is set.  The setting’s on 
spin and the spit itself is spat upon.

The Night Heron

(for my dear friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks, a poet of mind-boggling talent, 
for whom this poem has been promised for far too long, though not so 
long perhaps as the lives of poems go...they are ancient things, even 
the young ones, and as Memory is my negative Muse, I can not recall 
exactly where or when this piece began, except that I know it began 
in one of the many enriching conversations I have had with this man.) 

The Night Heron

the night heron stands 
silent as the sea
refuses the sun.

shorebirds' shadows fall 
on deafness like lids.

the sun speaks and you 
see the stars.  the wind 
tells your stories in 
voices of the night.

you hear.  you listen.

you find your roots in 
the reaching branches 
beneath still waters.

broken reeds whistle
a hollow tune in 
the wind and chatter 
like bones in the breeze. 

a clap, and you fly, 
pulling long legs from 
the water dripping
behind you, lighter 
than any great blue,
heavier than light.

we search the sky for 
fish while our branches 
blow in air.  we stand 
knee-deep in wetness
while all the life, all 
the time, is right here.

this song sings itself 
in the sun.  undone things 
thunder as one while 
the elders look on 
mutely and mourn the 
lost morning of man.

this work will never 
be done.  this song can 
never be un-sung.

A Man as Crude as Any

(a response (reflex?) to the Wendell Berry piece that my friend Jeremy posted over on 
 The Sand County ...just what happened when the pebble of those words hit the pool 
of my mind...)

A Man as Crude as Any

I am not afraid to punctuate 
profundity with flatulence.
I am as crude as biology,
as physiology, as the 
undeniable body that
flinches and rages,
blusters and bluffs.
I can not do justice
to the gifts I find all
around us.  These
jewels that fall from 
my mouth are an
aberration, the lucky
grunt of an ape that
happened upon a sound
that happens to sound
like the sound of another 
thing, a welling up from within 
for a thing that will always 
be a mystery from without.

I am not only naked 
in the sun, but crying
and sobbing before the
eyes of others.  I am
too aware of the game
to play it well.  I would 
be against the wall,
were that practice 
to find its vogue
again.  I would 
fight and feel a fool
or I would cast my 
eyes down and feel
a coward or I would 
do both and be redeemed
or I would do neither
and be damned.  My
teeth would become 
brittle sticks within
my mouth and my
tongue would turn
to stone, and fall
into my throat
and choke me.

A Thank You and a Congratulations!

A big thank you to the lovely folks over at The Blue Hour for publishing two of my poems,

and a Big Congratulations to my friend Jeremy Nathan Marks, of The Sand County for being nominated for the Blue Hour’s 2013 Best of the Net.  He is a remarkable poet and thinker and the nomination could not be more well deserved.  You should definitely check out his work if you have not already.