ppppoems

Book Four Book Three Book Two Book One

Four

Cranberries?

Big Bog, Little Bog
Natural tides of Cranberry Juice
La Jus de Oregon
the juice of weird and musty backroad shacks
peeping through the trees
one mans swampy crop
another mans mediocre sauce

tomatoes loins

He who eats the lavender bud
and tastes tomatoes loins
saliva on the breast
of dying herbal sprigs

Boggy scotch

Boggy scotch in heavenly markets
sweet peat, such pitiful fruit.
Sweet pity in a dank swamp.
Swamp Scotch and a boozy heart.

Pots of Earth

Pots of Earth & pots of beef
or tender beans.
Made of clay or steel & copper.
Earthen pots of water.
Fired in the bosom of Japan.
Glazed with a Chinese Dove.
Now found
with tender bean.

Next

Three

Active chicken

Active chicken,
cool your scratching
and break
from chicken wire pacing.

La Rois du Pot au Fue

La Rois du Pot au Fue
back alley beef stew
& table wine, a table of mine
and a rainy day & a pot of beef
plunct upon mine table fine.

Bird nest at your feet

I’m working on the casts, talking shit up at nile creek
my wrist is getting involved,
should only be using the fore arm is what they tell me
otherwise things get confused
lines get crossed
and you wind up with a birds nest at your feet

throwing a nymph into the shadows

When I’m standing in a nice
sandy spot up the river
throwing a nymph into the shadows
I feel the jaw bone in my pocket
that Lola found last week
and forgot about

a lonesome sportsman

I am a slidin' in the old bag
a lonesome sportsman in a folky prison
a salal fence and very many moths

Jesus is an old boy

Jesus is an old boy and I wonder about him sometimes
like at christmas or when my buddy
lends me a bible that his dog ate a bit of

down by the dugout

Bought an old farm
with a haywire house
full of small problems
and issues

Got ten acres
of flat dry land
gently sloping
to the south

Might fence it in
might get stuck
in the mud
while trying

Might put up a sauna
on the edge of the dugout
or a little hut
to sit in

Next

Two

My Little Eye

My little eye gets bigger and bigger
with each beer that I steal from pa
and then drink

Pertoglyphs and Pterodactyls

Pertoglyphs and Pterodactyls
go whispering awhile
and I go flitting
through quennel lake
as summer dies out

low tide

Plenty of gulls
to crack the skulls
of tiny crabs
whose job it is
to waddle about
when the tide is out

Jainland

A crazy place this is in the wet of winter Jainland
in the darkness of my hut hunting for hares
or the neighbours dogs, guarding the plains of Nestpatitas
and things in that vein.

Marmalade

Marmalade my, quintessential spread
who arms are always open on lonely mornings

Budget Soup

pull the cheap strings of cheap dreams
and poach the eggs of Chinese ducklings.
cheap beans in the simple soil
freshley picked by the cheap labour.
the hot sun sends cheapness into the roots
of cheap fruit which then is blended
into budget soup.

non-socks

Sunshine slithers down my shins
towards my non-socks
to rest upon
my non-delusional hairy toe

Joyce

Joyce and her husband
power walk goddamn laps
until suppertime

The pumpkin tree

The pumpkin tree
feels find today
buying groceries
from boulangerie

blues from the orient

Itay woke up from a bad dream, hard
he couldn’t get back to sleep
and the next day he had to work
but not until eleven o’clock in the morning

but at seven the construction would begin
and no one can sleep through that

he sat up late listening the neighbors
and Yusef Lateef’s eastern sounds

sleep came to Itay like finely ground coffee
dripping through the sheppard’s crook
of Lateef’s bassoon

milked along, watered by spit
from the boot through the bocal
to the double reeds then down his throat

Next

One

Bush Bean

I picked the fruit of the bush bean,
bundled it into my shirt,
tossed the soft ones to the hens
and ran the bean marathon
with just enough for one

the young sweet greens
par-boiled in the fog
just barely peppered
yet edible and friendly

Manzanita

In the fog of manzanita I'm able to hide
and pretend Im the only one
and that the forest stretches on as does the sea

Work Week

In the work week my heart hurts
and I taste some painful things
metallic and dust
and sweat stings my eyes
and boredom hangs around
and wonder wanders through

Grass

I ate the lawn that gets too long
with my grizzly bear who hugged the ground
and spit smoke and dust while my eyes got red
near some motel where I pick up trash in the parking lot

Champagne Hill

Like a boat come loose of it’s moorings
or even a dock drifting in the cove at night

I wait for her on top of Champagne Hill
forecasting winter by fire

cheese

Cheese, Cheese,
all kinds of lactose
coming ultimately out of teets
to sit in sauce or water
or growl within
cold deep caves