Father and Son

Dreamers Are Gluttons




Over  A Bowl Of Potato And Corn Soup, Mr. Marvin Tells Me How He Castrated Baby Goats


Love Poem #1

Leather Death Fruit and Flying -- A Consideration

The Mechanic Takes on Language

135th & Crossing

It Could've Been

Kermit's Jazz

The Muse



In Time

Bottomed Out Language

Such Fears

Spreading Out Histories

Days Unfold

There is a Flutter of Noise in My Head


It Could've Been

-           for Pammie


It could've been soundless, seamless, tasteless.

It could've been placed in Toledo, Terre Haute, maybe Baton Rouge.

It could've been a man restoring a 67 GTO

or his wife hoping for bills in the mail to prove their existence.

It could've been a whisp of air from a vagina after sex.

It could've been abstract: a red dot floating in black fabric.

It could've been given a name, real or fictitious.

It could've been a daughter of a baseball flunkie, mechanic, ex-junkie

or her mother who dove from a great height to rest listless and bloody in a heap.

It could've been a child in hand me down clothes her hands pounding

        the top of a hand built crib.

It could've been trained: sit here, poop here, wipe from front to back.

It could've been barely visible foursquare lines

           and a child who still knew where to spike the ball.

It could've been the soft swell of a young girl's chest

      her fingers moving over sore skin.

It could've been a father drinking at home,

      his pockets not as deep as his whiskey glass.

It could've been two voices not knowing how to fit part A into slot B,

      move the wrench of words into position, tighten conversation into something workable.

It could've been a fan blowing warm air on sticky skin,

or a makeshift curtain stapled to a window,

or even how a person's want becomes the wide expanse of eyesight, fingertip.

It could've been a woman sleeping with her eyes open.

It could've been about a person who wanted to die so badly

      she climbs the bulwark of concrete and barbed wire to grab 1300 volts

or perhaps she could've been sitting window side thinking about focus or hospitalization, 

      and how her psychiatrist expected an answer that afternoon.

It could've been her landlord on the sidewalk below climbing onto the hood of  her VW,

      stripping to his boxers while she hears trumpets play and watches his penis

           bump the flannel fabric like a fist under a blanket. 

It could've been a penis rising to the standing ovation of a small crowd

      then being snapped off as if it were a dead limb.

It could've been a woman telling her doctor that she needs to work on her logic. 

      Simple logic.  

It could've been about a doctor turning to the blackboard, writing 25.  Simple logic,

      and then asking her  What are the 24 more important things you need to work on?  

It could've lived.

Originally published in Slipstream

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