BY Michael

09/01 Direct Link

I am in between.

I am squeeze. 

I am a non essential. 

I am in search of exotic foods.

Call me a collector

A hoarder.


Forgive my frequency of communication. 

I am in love with an essence

on the other end and am driven by needs I can barely


to communicate

to escalate.


i am here. 

nowhere else. 

It is the only reason I am here. 


for a touch of passion.

Without this I would be elsewhere:


into the timbre of a panting automobile

pawing my way across long sleeves of


grinning my way across Michigan. 


09/02 Direct Link

I have no reason

Nor excuse.

I only want my necktie nailed down

And crushed between me and you.


Only want

to understand this life

mapped and walked

at close range 

only want to find the flurry in

blue skies and live the

full futility in peace.


I want to make it to the bogus round

I suppose and

drive through to the place where i can be




an ingredient

in da pudding

in da desert of


sweet emotional barbecue...

lips and faces smeared with loving tangy


grinning while animal fatty tissue drips from our


09/03 Direct Link

Living in burnt metal memory,

and busted tires,
cracking concrete lizards stealing over yellow lines
reaching weed-like for

branching hungry wires
slapping happy against the low smoky sky.


Go away ghosts of the scrap heap!
Go haunt the intangible.
Ease those who have no tongues.
Go swallow the moon

Quench the liar

Rehabilitate the co-dependent

For feeding the fire......


Handcuff him to the fence

Where he leans

Shoot him up with Normalzine

Ragged head, orange eyes
The king of the scrap heap crouches
turning his head to the missing starz
cranking the broken greasy engine block:
useless inspiration for hire.

09/04 Direct Link

Jester turns her head too
the sounds of the take off groaning
the tarry smell of the burn
for some memory of pleasure

to quiet the ache of the long sleep.

And across the field

Snow is falling
kissing branch and bloom
touching chrome and rust
the glass bubble of dust.

Piling up, inch by inch, flake by flake
until they unite as one
and yet the puzzle
if each is truly unique
then do we each have one
with our name on it?

Flakes falling lovely
strange to be seen
puzzle in ice and ink
puzzle in king


09/05 Direct Link

Puzzle in queen

And how can rain be so soft

and loud

beating restlessly against the flaking bumpers?

How can the snow be so soft yet cold

touching the veil,

As she ties a shoe beneath the lace?


Pausing to listen to a truck climbing the hill outside
to reflect,
to roll the last phrase
over my tongue before swallowing.
Unsure where to go.

Sometimes, a whisper is as loud
as a scream
Everything we know drowned

by the silence between

and always

without glance or show

the quiet ashes emerge from the chimney
to mingle with the sooty snow.


09/06 Direct Link

I think you came spinning

somewhat recklessly

into my arms

laughing giddy

and then out again

across the slippery floor.

Oh but it was just the wine.


I can still feel

your shape

in my arms.

Somehow in that moment

I inhaled a

a lifetime of you.


How could you have been

so careless?


But I have to ask

in truth

after my own innocence.


Have there been times

when I have touched someone

only partially knowing how

deeply the spark was planted?


Left someone wondering

how could I

have just kept moving?

how I could have been so careless?

09/07 Direct Link

Aw it just rips me up.

Do you have any idea

how hard it is to write


and not make it a hundred words?


But then when I was doing the slam

everything I wrote was three minutes


it just went on and on




You do fifty thousand words.


Or you can write fourteen lines

Iambic pentameter.



I am confused for good cause.


It is the poet’s season.

The world is on fire.

Zombies aflame leap

inner-city barricades

with mayoral candidates

in their maws.


Children bleat

stumble in ratty sheets.

Chocolate wrappers

flutter down frozen streets.


09/08 Direct Link

They say

Every vowel has its day

Even though some piece of

Punctuation is going to be there

At some point to declaim

That maybe this was not THE day

That it only thought it was its day

That it was only pretending in fact

That it wanted to have a day

So badly

Had waited so long

That when it saw an opening

That looked even close

To ITS day

It jumped in and started

Flinging consonants around

Only to come to a sudden

And probably somewhat fortuitous


Perhaps it’s true

What they say;

Just not any


09/09 Direct Link

I was thinking

Of something else when I wrote


Of course.

But I was thinking. 

Now I am thinking of something else.

I spy. I spy something…

Damn, I have no idea what color it


Does it have to have a color for this game?

A quality?

It that sufficient?


A Quality.

I spy.

I spy something human.

It returned from the UK this morning

Or last night

I am not sure which.

Yes, it was my son.

Bringing a somewhat

British friend with him

Who looked Indian

And spoke with a Tennessee accent.

A nice man.

09/10 Direct Link

It was not to be placed

On the scales or be smeared

By chromatographic dyes

This kiss I caught

Soaring my way.


It tickled as I held it in the

Palm of my hand and

Wriggled in the most

Elusive way under microscopic



Yet left to its own I noticed

A certain warmth calling me back

Where I noticed also an inexplicable



Tracing its lines carefully I found

It had some magnetic properties

With uncertain boundaries that

Once passed

Seemed to invert

The kissed becoming

The kissing.


What was this, desire?

The delicacy activated…

Further research is required.

09/11 Direct Link

My eyes paint uncertain space

with hues of green, blue, and red.

The space moves and wiggles.

The harder I look

the more detail I see in the color;

the more movement I see in the soup outside my window. 


There are so many different hues of

green and blue

in this mess that were I an artist

I would go mad trying to absorb it all. 


A long snake-like thing wriggles by,

caught in an updraft, fighting for control. 

Oh, for wings, for a pair of wings,

for a quartet!

I could be a dragon by god! 

09/12 Direct Link

There is lots of red. 

It is in tiny points and pin-pricks trying

to bleed through. 

It is in the closely-held seams of soft bark

in dark trees across the way.

It flows out of the spring behind the house,

and over the flat slippery rocks,

a dark crimson that turns transparent

when it hits the air and is gone by the time

it slips into the pool below. 


I think it is there still in the dreams though. 

The red.

Because it is hard to stay out of that pool in dreams.

The dream pool streams deep and red.


09/13 Direct Link

Coming down the stairs

my hand light on the rail

bare toes slipping the weave

of carpet in the morning.


Coming down the stairs

always somewhere

slightly out of reach,

obscure, unseen, and unknown.


I glance to the left

at the stairs where

I’m hearing you clatter

down the steep steps in tears,

a blinded Cinderella 

falling out of her shoes.


There are countless

variations of

coming down the stairs

and it is only a mathematical

most likely


because in someone’s somewhereelse

you are coming up the very same stairs

just as fast and happy

and you are on fire.

09/14 Direct Link

Calming down the stars

Slowly bringing down

The stars one by one

My hand light on the rail

Bare toes slipping the weave

Of damp grass and

moss in the morning.


Dragging down the net

Into the foggy bottom.

This is my life

always somewhere

slightly out of reach,

obscure, unseen, and unknown.



splitting in mid air.

Stars gleaming, starting to fall,

one too quickly.


There are countless

variations of

bringing down the stars

and it is only a mathematical

most likely


because in someone’s somewhereelse

you are raising up the very same stars

and you are on fire.

09/15 Direct Link

My friend claimed

To have sent me some

Much-needed good sense.


Still I was surprised

When the UPS truck kicked

The wooden crate off

The tailgate and sped away.


With hand truck I wrestled

The box into my kitchen

And dumped it onto the floor.


With hammer and pry bar

I coaxed off the top.

I got a couple big bags

To collect the plastic peanuts

And materials from the

Careful layers of Packing.

Finally I was peering

Into an almost empty crate at a

Compact wiry kind of coppery…

What was this thing?


She sent me the

Damn spider!

09/16 Direct Link

My eyes are not completely


This early evening

As I watch the sun glitter off

The Miss Dig flags struggling

On yonder green

Or the wind blowing

The wild ass hedge

Trying to scrape its way

Through the screen on the front window.


This wind is wild and cold everywhere

Today.  I can feel it going through me

Even though I am not outside.

I remember it.

I was outside

This morning


And even though I walked for over an hour

I could not get warm.

We are back to that again aren’t we?

After all this time.

09/17 Direct Link

Ok so we are back to

That again are we?

It is a day like any other?

Except it is not like any other

It is not a life like any other.

Those are all little lies. 


Well that in itself may be a lie.

After all there is the concrete block

Theory of reality – the bricks and mortar


It says what you see

Is what you get.


That would be the cradle to crematorium



Then there are the multiple

And sometimes embarrassing transcendental

Perspectives which tend to be a little bothersome

Because they seem mostly mental aberrations.

09/18 Direct Link

The problem with writing off

The transcendental outlook

Is that there are all those


Where the wallpaper of the universe

Gets worn or ripped away

And you look into the

Mist beyond.


Or there are those odd

Experiences you have that

Are utterly convincing.


Or perhaps most or of all

The human animal for whatever

Reason seems to thrive

Most likely and most happily

In the transcendental mind frame.


It fits too naturally around the

Human psyche to be ignored and the human

Being physically, emotionally and mentally


To the transcendental as if saying

I have been nurtured.

09/19 Direct Link

I’m hanging from an old cottonwood

bleached out over the snow.

My eyes are closed against the

bright radiance of the cold below.


You might say I am enjoying the view.


If nothing exists in this world save

saying it makes it so then

There is no madness unless we

give the name to the act,

to the condition.


It appears to be beauty,

and then flashes

to madness.

And it flashes





It flashes like some old stuttering

Movie projector quite

Catching up to itself.

We are left hanging

To interpret

To fill in the missing spaces.

09/20 Direct Link

I do not know if you lived

In a castle

Or house of tin.


I don’t know if your

Parents were adoration,

Or squared off


Corners of squid


That spread into your 



I don’t know

If you grew into quiet


Or were hollowed


Cravings you couldn’t quench,

A young girl watering

Her breasts with tears.


I do understand those things

Leave marks that

I do not see on you.


You seem to have sprung full

From the earth

Without antecedent,

Without jailer or nurse.


I know this cannot be

So I listen much more



09/21 Direct Link

I think he’s

Sleeping under the porch or

Some such.

There is not much space there.

It is dry, rocky

And the dust causes

Him to sneeze terribly.


He finds it hard to turn

Onto his side there and I

Know for a fact that he

Can’t sleep on his



Can’t you do something?

Can’t you talk him into coming out?

I really don’t know what we

Might have done to offend him

Like this.


In fact

We like him very much.

I think he gets these ideas

That we don’t want him around

And crawls under the porch.

09/22 Direct Link

I am looking down

off the mountain.

I cannot

see anything except the side

of the mountain and the


boring through another mountain that

will most likely look like the one I am on:

the train,

the mountain,

the tunnel.


It means nothing.

Yet by the very same tag

It all means something and

That is something I should think about.

I become aware that it does mean something.

That it is for something

and I am slightly shocked

for knowing this

as my fingers slow

and I lose touch

in the dark as we fall

through another mountain.

09/23 Direct Link

It all seems very un


It could be made of plastic.


Even this pain in my jaw

Which the dentist assured me several



Was merely a strained tendon -

would go away


Is like the lump of melted

Black and smoldering plastic

Of a green toy soldier’s leg I

Set on fire as a child.


It ball at the end of the man’s leg was

Sticky and hot.


It smelled terrible.


Was I an evil child?

I don’t know. 

I think even then

 I was more interested

In the properties of the plastic

Than the soldier.

09/24 Direct Link

 It all seems very un


It could be made of plastic.


I am  quite sure the view in my window

Of leaves beginning to taint themselves

For the fall

Could have been ripped from some

Plastic diorama.


And clearly the spots of water on the window

And the screen

Left by my son


Are merely places where an acrylic panel is


To end

To dissolve into its component parts.


And this desire for sleep

That I cannot release the catch to

Un cage

Is merely a cracked and broken

Piece of under-engineered


We have all seen that.

09/25 Direct Link


I leave you today

Not in the sense of leaving you forever

But more of a bbl.

But I leave nevertheless with a bit

Of uncertainty and

The possibility of anger in

The air.


Perhaps the possibility of

Freedom for me is there


It seems that I feel I need some…

Freedom for me.


It seems that you have held me

In stasis with some kind of guilt

For a series of crimes that are

Not necessarily mine

To consider.

And if they are mine then

I must have responsibility for

Half of humanity plowing

Rocks in bloody despair.


09/26 Direct Link

I have finished

With the grocery adventure.

The pleasure-sensitive thin plastic bags

Have been carried in and emptied,

The upstairs stuff taken upstairs

And the downstairs stuff taken



I have been divested of $143

And while that may not seem like

So very much to the average shopper

To me it is a small fortune to spend

In a grocery store.

It is not like it was

A record store

Or even a decent restaurant.

It was only a fucking grocery store

With lights and bleeps and all of humanity

Bearing down on me with chrome

Siege machinery.

09/27 Direct Link

The leaves have made a considerable

Shift in color variation since yesterday.

But they are leaves.

This is what they do.


It is cold

And I made you walk.

But you enjoyed every minute

Even the uphill part

Although you said you did not.

I confess that I usually arrange my walk

So I am coming downhill

At the end of the thing.


I find myself today with an enthusiasm that cannot be aroused.

A little catatonic


 It leaves me distressed because I feel that there is something wrong

That I MUST be doing THINGS

Surely there were things…


09/28 Direct Link

i have to call those evil service representatives at  Boost today.  Maybe i should just change my phone service.  Their recordings just make me grind my teeth.  They are long, complicated, and frequently do not respond to the numeric prompts.  And the narrator has a real fuck-you attitude.  And when you finally get a real person you cannot you cannot understand their "English.”  I teach ESL to Koreans, Chinese, Mexicans, Philippinos, and Detroiters.  I have studied German, Yiddish, Spanish, Latin and Swahili and I grew up in Ohio and I cannot understand the people who answer the phones at Boost.

09/29 Direct Link

Six Questions


“We have six questions to ask you.  For English please press one.”


“We have six questions to ask you.  For English please press one.”


We have six questions to ask you.  For English please press one.

“One One.”

We have six questions to ask you.  For English please press one.

“One  One One.”

We have six questions to ask you.  For English please press one.

“One One One One.”

“We have six questions to ask you.  For English please press one.”

“One One One One One. #  % Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Zero”



09/30 Direct Link

It is Sunday.  The Boost people have cordoned off the neighborhood and have the house surrounded.  They have cut off my phone service, yet the news service says they are trying to contact me.  All I have to do to restore my service is press “one” on my handset.  A short man with a megaphone strides to the bottom of my yard.  He says something toward me I don’t understand.  I can see my neighbors barbecuing a few houses down.  The man shakes his head.  “This is not cool,” I hear him say through the megaphone.  He can speak English!