4x jobs ax
2x big legal axn, HK, Agnes-ity
10x new tires
1500 track miles
$50k much over-spending mania, Pgonia, Hugo Boss, outta work
2x new dogs
1x big accident
1x titanium plate
10x new pairs o pants
4x new jackets
11x broke bones and
3x mos to sit w this shit in my lap
see how it all rests on my both-broken shoulders and those to whom i’m
no ya available: Peper, Carliot, Karen S, Yvonne B, who else have I
fkkd over, oh, yea, Ma; and pete w my plns to return to racing and
maybe Erica w my exploratory attitude to being in a step-father rshp w
and who else have i fkkd over?
and i learned o life in fear, where one
returns not phone calls
and speaks not one’s mind
and sits in The Spite chair
and shits one’s own bed
and sits-stays there and prepared to fk over Ma & Pete’s generosity by
returning to the track in pure betrayal o them & Haley
and the pure sort o selfishness o wh i detest in my father, where, he,
as a rolling stone gathers no moss in the high desert and me, the
same, only in my rolling, i crush delicate lichen
i strip the moss fr the shaded sides o their spirits
the sides they protect,
they turn to me and i go in w cork-cutters and acid breath and stop
them the years o moss and wool they’ve gathered and placed carefully
in decoration of their persons
and i can’t even rise to the level o JFRaymo, where he learned his
limits, where he made a deal ;
nor like Stuart, father to Lucia, Yves
and I am a sonofabitch
and would they have just let the air escape my lungs and be done w it
for by living i hurt all others
and by self-killing i hurt my daughter
so who gets to win?
upon whom do i bestow the prize o peace?
who gets to live w/o pain fr me?
and who gets to die after my fashion for the good ot many?
and why not killed that day on the track?
what maleficent god @ play in the fields o WV?
what pitiless blind god that denies the trail o destruction;
the several wakes in tow behind me sees them all then sees them not
or sadistic bastard for the stripping o fresh bark;
the collapsing o many bees to their knees?
and shooting not bears at sea in tiny craft o tiny disappearing craft
and knowing not the rules of the road nor the rules o engagement and
pitiless in his refusal to put a bullet to the head o Levon helm, to
put one bullet to my head and save the others the deluge o fusillade
spare the others the machines o war w cams & springs and endless
screws and random drum beats and ogic rounds into semi-vital organs
but not sudden organs that would offer up a generous cinema death
let me count the dead
i shall enter the bsmt and count the counted coup
and failing that forgiving life-giving bullet; i shall ride into
and i shall slay innocents & pike their skulls and count their coup
and garotte their children
and burn their forests down
and strip them o their spears
and leave a scorched trail o tears in the wake
my legacy and the Nez Perce shall ride no more, they shall only walk
in inadequate moccasins and the salmon shall run no more so the
indians fat, gaunten and who is this?
who is this john Gaunt?
He of no appleseeds
he casting no magic into the ground, provisioning not the future
feeding not next children
tapping breasts o their milk
trees o their syrup
the taps driven into their sides to slow-suck the life o them and i
tripping gaily gathering buckets fr the woods o the wild things;
and tipping buckets into cars o coal mines and dipping honey into hell
for the tongue-less souls below its surface and trident-ed back down
under the sudden sour sweet sap;
can one tap souls as one taps trees?
can one comb spirits
can one comb hearts as one combs bees?
and are trees and bees not both at the mercy o those who would
internally combust who would offer nought but pressure waves into a
chamber o decimated bones?
and are bees and trees and bears not all o the same degree?
are they like the trees in my wood, not wholly on their knees?
like the bees in my hood
like the bears in my lairs
fall failing to the cunning fox
and for what,
these songs o despair?