The marriage ended and released some of the very angry poems you will encounter here. My best stuff I think was near the end of the marriage. I could create a suspended palace in the air with the ideas of my poems and keep it afloat with great effort and this let me escape the mess! Like in "Sunday Study" I was in love with my creations both children and art, but ultimately would "hollow out" my art for the sake of my children. 

I haven't written so much of late. "Genesis" being the very latest, followed by "Meamerican" and "Ode to a Shopping Cart" and a bunch of dog poems. I do love "meamerican" and there is a sculpture to go with it that I call "BTU SLUT".

My writing recently has been all on this website as I document Nina's Nook and my other little obsessions. I have been fortunate to create the palace of effort in a three dimensional way as it manifests in the ode to joy called Nina's Nook. Nothing angry about it at all, and finally i celebrate my madness without worries! (but, still, some welbutrin...).

It was a town of gravel and greed

Of rape-cut logs weeping sap into the river

Of Unholy rollers and whiskey drinkers and rollicking money men

Of law breakers and lone wolves and loan sharks

Poking their great sticks into the gyre

Spewing their spunk against the shore.

It was a town of machines

fighting sleep until dawn with a hungry hohum

churning time into dollars,

chumming dollars into time.

It was a town of  paychecks and strangers and honky tonk patrons

Of paper and cotton and metal,

 Bright pennies, sore losers, and children

Of Buckles and shit smears and liquor,

Of lovers and shovels and death.

It was a town of

suckers and sinners greedily milked

By those who were assholes by name and date and nature,

It was a town of the faithful and fickle, fighting and

clawing at their blood brimming eyes

 far from eden and hard of hearing,

silently, blindly, anonymously

sliding through the sluice gate of the 20th century.

It was a town that was randy and  red cheeked,

Burnished with drinking and dancing

its skirts hitched up with splinters

heels kicking dandelions and dirt

in the alleyways.

It was a town that was female and horny with the carress of trowels

 in brick crotches

And hungry and female under the gliding mouths of fish.

snacking on moss and stone and

female with its cascade of slick hope and sweet tricks.

The town was a big prick

turgid at the head waters,  ballsy with investors

 Jerked off  by trains and trolleys and

Time pieces, laughing, smashed,

And coming hard under the hammering

of 16 hour work days.

I’m taking little purple pills. I keep

them in a sky blue glass box by the sink

Sometimes I push and push

(good mother, food mother)

but I can’t get out

of this house.

I am scraping these walls,

shaving them, smoothing them

blank as a page and ripe as stone

looking for a stinging cut,

a word, the force behind some hand

that strikes finalities.

I am not a good housekeeper.

flour moths

fly out of the cupboards.

I throw away the oyster crackers:

larvae are squirming in each hexagon

hollowed out by tiny mouths

to hold their young.

I’ve thrown away a lot of food

but I‘ve never gotten rid of them.

I  scrunch scrunch

inside the box.

The wall is sky cold

my thinking crinkles

as this blue slides in and

makes a static white of it.

I don’t miss a thing.

I’m taking little purple pills. I keep

them in a sky blue glass box by the sink

I try not to think about the wild

and forbidden things that you have tasted:

the blood memory behind your dark eyes;

the deep secrets of the soil

translated huff by huff into the moist

slits of your nose.

I surrender to your rasp as it

tastes the grooves of my face,

imagining the oils of my industrial,

combustive day lapped

up metallic on your tongue.

Your eyes glaze with the rhythm

and intensity of your  effort

to tame and detoxify me, and

I obediently fall into your dumb darkness

of dust and dog pee and wind-borne gossip.

You take me to the entrance of innocent sleep

and teach me the beast language

in which suffering is cured by more suffering,

while civilization whines and howls,

indecipherable and distant

between the bellies of the hills.

In the sungold, dusty,

Demoted afternoon

I let you roam

Nosing each leaf,

Curiously dappled

Like you

Light and dark

Your bouncing run--

Wonderful you!

Brings you no closer

To rustles and rainbows

Than I

In my wish to fasten

Your sinuous dash

In my mind.

O weinerdog!

You give me free smiles.

Head so faithfully fitted to my palm

nose to the breastbone, on my lap you sigh and

press toward shadows under the chin.

Gathering yourself between my breasts you

press on anxiously out of the light,

some burrow-seeking instinct leading

your nose into my armpit,

piebald ears spread against my shirt

like wings of a giant moth.

Your brother curls on my lap,

half lame but twice as strong

front paws punching my legs

in a furious little dance

as he barks at a flicker of light, each bark

throwing him upwards with its force.

Agitated, he has no use for my lap, wishes

for Down, for Out as paw beats quicken

and barks meander into questioning whines.

I set him on the floor, and propelled

by some hunting, he-dog spirit

he is off, dragging his rear legs behind him,

too determined and headstrong for pity.

It is only you, pressing desperately deeper towards

darkness and the beat of my heart,

who is damaged beyond repair.

That fear                                                                                              to be ignored

Entanglement, mesh bright hot wire                            beautiful darkness

Pressure up above the ears                                                      two aspirin

Hearing you not falling                                                           ignorance is bliss

Into the net                                                                              swung by the moon

Strange fish                                                                 comforting sameness, community

White bladder poking                                                  buoyancy

Out of its mouth                                                          dead

By the hundredweight all-familiar                               in droves they came, a multitude

Again                                                                          disease in stasis

Stupid cunt in the net                                                   history repeats itself

Again                                                                          history repeats itself

Buzz buzz can’t feel what I mean                                brain gripped in truth

Can’t see what is real                                                              your lies

Can’t feel.                                                                                My lies

Anger so slow                                                             erupting on my face

So afraid                                                                      doors 

Anger anger                                                                I haven’t entered

Eat me up anger                                                                       preoccupied with it

Biting, raging anger red white                                                 save it savor it

Anger pushing out anger                                                         be gone

Throwing up anger                                                                  out with it

Extruding hot steaming anger                                      no more bullshit

Blind anger lava anger                                     hitting wildly

Cell consuming anger                                                  condensing

Melting anger                                                              evaporating

Get the fuck away from me anger and I am used to it close tolerances

The way it came out,                                                   quality control

Turds of words chipping                                                         can’t change him

Sly obsidian words transforming hate words                          doesn’t even listen

Imagining words                                                         denial

Some other life growing words                                   alternatives

Constructing words nets                                                         safety, sanity

Nets of words to fall into                                                        creativity

Hot and blind                                                                          processing

Caught in the net                                                                     transforming

Words/poems like fish bladders                                              uplifting

Caught in the throat as I rise from the depths                          ironic

You                                                                                         consistent

Giant beneath the sea                                                               omniscient

White, huge, primordial                                                           entropic

Never caught, mythological you                                              generations

Plath’s mother you                                                                  atavistic

Monster you                                                                            enraging

 Wounded dark congealed night

                                        Thick tissue black

Scabbed with fight

Up from the South

Borne howling up

Leg ripped, white eyed

Out-alpha-ed shit-scared

Flat-eared damage dog,

Fighter.

Meamerican:

I bid you rip my heart

I am the abuser

And the lover both,

Agape in horror

Yet drawn to forge

That silent secrecy,

That slow Faulkner

Destiny, a burial grown

Monstrous with damnation

And a wily urge to murder.

Meamerican:

From the weak I wring

Blood/semen/milk

And gasoline.

This is American,

This partaking of harm

And plates of flesh

And this slow dessert

Of shame and love.

What a peptic rhapsody

My murders have been,

Me-O-Meamerican.

Or was it banjo twangs

Of guilt beneath the guise of

Violins?

Touching lightly death’s face

My own, others, the helpless

Animals who did not outlive

My self-absorbed misery;

And yet I did not suffer--

I lived righteous as any gas-guzzler

Of the North who says he is no

Murderer.

Came with the all the great gifts of

Love and what else a man offers

To others and the world

If I believed you could change

In summer or winter

In the dark or the light days

In the company of others or alone

If I believed that good things are created

Between and for and by us

It would matter greatly.

But I will not be part of this entropy

Where leaves keep falling

--Summer always in aftertaste;

Winter forever impending--

And the temperature is resolutely 37 degrees.

While perched on this perimeter of light

This slice of meridian, this present time

Of budding and dying and tides turning

I feel the burning and quenching of the hours

And rejoice that you have gone.

Neat package, tucked flesh

Twirl you

Into my sweet tap cut of love

Flicking off the chips with my tongue

Standardized, fulfillment.