Poetry used to mean
rockets and smiley face launch pads
and inexpensive, nonleaded fuel.
Matching spacesuits and freeze-dry icecream
were agiven.

Now, it means a red wolf moon;
indian names written in coalminer's dust
a psychadelic earth
can I put you out for a while? said
the auburn-dunced cuckoo.
The sky whistled its reply through
the snakes that coil in my mouth.

Skin slides along
smooth muscle,
and if I could digest your swarthy pain, I
might sell my beer for a bigger gun, might
down what courage I could not keep and
spring forth as though sure there would be
a net to catch me.