up in Marquette, mi on lake superior the air

is intoxicating. especially when you have moved

from there, and are briefly visiting some friends, and when you

say some, you mean, all.   so you breathe as much as possible

pull it into your lungs, dizzy and home.

your lover does the same,  you can’t talk about it

though,  to talk about it would force you to admit failure

Winter ( one last look)

cimg1195.jpgWhat if the grass was still green and we had time to touch each other on strands of Lake Superior. What if when I called your name you came to me wearing shorts and sandals, with your hair growing long, and smiled to touch me. And the sun was up and the waves were so high they knocked us down. But the water was warm, so we stayed way past the dog walkers and the hikers, and sunbathers, we stayed and made love, if it was summer, we would. There would be no other way; we’d stay for hours on the smooth rocks. Or at least I like to pretend that is what would happen, if this were summer. It is not even fall when the leaves turn their reds and browns and pinks and oranges with the evergreens contrasting, and the big blue. Nor is it spring when the evergreens lose their needles. And the ground is covered in reddish brown little needles, and the ice shelves melt and the Canadian goose returns with his family. No, this is winter, and so there is not much to do, but crunch and slide as close as we can stand.  

Thursday in Marquette



Today I went to favorite coffee shop and smoked

a weed stick while I looked at the lake.


It’s so fucking blue, even in the winter.


Said my good bye to Theo, the only way I knew how.  I stared

at everything and tried to remember every detail, and whispered “I’ll never tell. 

I ran into my fan base,  a brilliant man who loves to hear poetry

more than he loves to write it.  I slipped him the tongue.

Theo told me I should start a blues  band,  “the delta dead river blues band”

I told him that I would and I am not moving.  Everybody keeps saying “you’ll

love it” but that won’t stop me from missing home. 

There is nothing as lonely as the Saturday morning coming,

except the ones after it 


 I am sorry for the way it cried.  It was stupid.  It couldn’t help it.


I would have called sooner but a chunk of p and j got stuck in my ear and it took

two years to get it out ( and a lot of smoke).


Next time I see you I’ll be a liar.

 It will be about lies and more lies,

 and I will tell you I love prairie grass

as much as the sea. I am not myself,

I didn’t mean to bite you

I was nervous for a reason to stay.