wailing

everytime

I go out back of the foothills mansionhouse

to the patio, which is a nice patio

I mean, one can smell the sagebrush, and there are many little birds flitting

and no trafficsounds

the uphill neighbor guy starts whacking his weeds

and edging his lawns

  I mean, this guy has a lawns 

where there was once desert

yeah there was once desert here

and no fancy rich foothills mansionhouses

  so complaining of lawn

  is already pretty moot

oh my god there is a fucking baby here! I hear it!

I'm such an asshole

I'm smoking a cigarette

and the guy stopped doing his lawn

and I can hear a newborn wailing inside

re liable

last night we went to our clubhouse,
nickey, chad, ida following the sunset path
through the sagebrush, past the aspen
and the pinkening donkeytail succulents
to our place between the two pines
on that awkward slope that sores legs
or jambs toes to sit on.
just in time for that first star.
we talked abt what new orleans is like
abt a fantasy mansionhouse
and our brilliant year-round gardens.
a man came up from the house below.
we met him the night before,
he told us we got his curiosity up
bc there lives a family of fox
and a coyote who chases the babies around.
he thought we might be them.
I think abt fox & coyotes a lot
I think how I'd like to join them.
last night he came & sat with us, this neighbor
he was glad to hear there were some liberal people living in the stepford houses
he told us that we were saved for this time,
that we were reserved for this moment
to carry the future. to teach, bc we have the structure
to teach the careless generations beneath us.
he told us about his world drums, slurring his speech,
ice jingling in his plastic cup
he invited us to his sweatlodge.
I was looking at the fullnight sky, by now
envisioning you, flipping your hair
miles & miles away
I was thinking of what I'd say to you had I been filterless
promises I'd make & keep
drives to take. getting you at me.
I am not a wish
  but I am a big future
and I committed to the notions of
  gratitude & accountability
     for my good fullfuture hands
I like the wild dog path we're taking
past the sucs, past the aspen
and I like the certainty that I'm contained, somewhere
there
in a promise to the selves I will undoubtedly keep

hurt my feelings

okay so I've been talking to the universe, and

  I think

  I think

it's trying to tell me that Idaho is my beautiful home

  what, something about the countryside

    because I spend time there, in the sagebrush

and I love it when my hands are so dirty

  I look tan,

    cinnamon

and then my car stops working

  because I'm blogging in it while it's raining

   listening to the radio, it's all really good

    smoking 1,000 smokes

and how will we ever get out of here, now?

 that sort of thing.

But of course, I just needed to get jumped

Nickey & I found a secret clubhouse

  in the foothills, it overlooks all of Boise

  in a way that makes it seem

  like it really is a city for trees

one can't see the buildings

it looks like it did when those frenchcanadian people showed up in their beaverskin caps.

why am I so angry

why am I surprised

when people don't like me,

don't want to be my friend.

I want to say a lot of very cruel, inconsequential things

  I want to hurt someone's feelings

   more than mine could ever be

because that's what big men do 

they break one another down

I guess, so I hear

I'm not a pick-on-you

 I'm not a hurter 

  I'm not even a hurtee

like I was, once.

I am thick, I know

 but I still have these knives in me

  and I know they can be good for the stabbing

but I am out of the habit-of-cruel

 and it doesn't come naturally

so I should probably just go to the clubhouse, now

  and be sweet & good

   and forget that love-sadness-regret-anger-hatred cycle

    that I've been riding.

This is a Diary entry

  for no one at all

I just don't know how to write a diary, anymore

  like I don't know how to walk or run

   I just know how to memorize

    and to look hard

     and to feel hard

      

     and I'm forgetting how

to wish

  which is the only good thing I've learned to forget

20: goldspeck sparrow, sour greens

My larkspur longs for you! My rockfrog leaps into the cool of a pond! The only flowers on their backs are goldspeck lichens, (sagebrush scented) while a hawk (ferruginous in style & temperament) seals the deal. A rusted Solomon's seal, left by the sticks of lungworts melted over a high flame. My own sour greens grow wilted after a hot summer's look, yours, in particular. My own sparrow (chipping) in the early, early morning, before even the grub lichens have slid out from their dormant domiciles for a bite of fresh sorbet. In this heat, in this desert, my skin is yours; my own flesh melts off in jackets of toadskin lichens, only for your smoothe fingertips.