Serial Poem Part 3.1

Motion and Stillness

it all boils down. what are the bones. hurt and home and time. movement. the idea moving past you and inside you. then you are alone. then you cannot sleep. you want to be famous, but why. you want to die. be honest you little shit.


We vultures.

We keep circling

presence of fog, in a boat,

each time we land

the lake swivels

we are on the other side again.

waiting game

graphed into wave form


laser slicing face out of a block

of butter.


The whistle sounds.

2 orderly lines

form unbroken


blurry in a vast white.

somehow more white in the middle,

the white’s white anus

bursts to birth the black stitching.



don’t throw a helpless whelp out on his ear

if you’ve work to do just point it out

we’ll be glad to help and if you want to pay

us for it

we’ll gladly accept your kindness.

Remember that

and the bar,

old drunk Galen in his cups,

“everything runs better with grease.”

But I, in my cups, thought he said geese.

I sneezed

imagining them

propping me up,

shouldering my weight,

tucking me in, companions


They work lard into their feathers,

get limber for the dance

dance around the stone,

wafting smoke of their last doober,

this is the night of prophesy.

cosmic goose shaman descends

honking whisper

the secret to me,

“put it all on the line with a shrug,

roost and eat bugs.”

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