Tuesday, December 05, 2006


muse aubade for mine – this was

when you laughed – hysterically
that night – it was the perfect place

to end – the muse of mine
you were – where I am left

now – I must piss which
escapes my mind – since

worn – walkways
line one – milk box

from the next – heavy route
towards becoming – believably

barely believable – even polished
to bare – minimums

under articles – your loin
cloth – barely covers

your covering – warm
hands – warming still

your golden disc – really flares up
iowa's highest tide – your expectant

voice – tears
as it turns – everything

purple – even blue
was purple – it was really

weird – every minute
of our eighty hour day – a finch

on a branch – being subjective
in two minutes – of heaven

instead – what sucked
is history – your song

on the subject – blew minds
while nailing men down – just keep on nailing

all those nails – then go chew
your own nails – down

in the corner – to the quick
history you have – looking only

on numbers – caring less how
long lived – longing living

is what is – never enough
assurances – but consider

this right now – may be
you – given your goodbye

but first – let me nurse
your overstressed – hermaphroditic bud

blooming in late summer – the caw calls
for a fall fast – they built a subway

exactly where – our tent was
last minute – in Iowa

I had assumed – it was dawn
several times – it became obvious

it was dusk – time to push
hard manly – "ya well bite me"

before a feminized – "ya your insensitive
prick...hmpfff" – crosses arms

legs lips shift – slightest evidence
forming – a long line

of circles – in unison
repeating some – from former selves

before the crust of earth – became some
dime store dinner ware – your blood spills

at the slightest twitch – of one follicle
your pupils flutter – even without light

much less gravity – in the front seat
could you please – be more

interesting – you ask
regarding – other points

of interest – which was but fortune
sweet lass...hmm – how touching

you wearing – on your bare skin
these patterns – even imperfection

can yield – fortunes
upon fortunes – of agelessness

your laugh – a river of gold
however early – it was



Lyle Daggett said...

A strange and fascinating one to read. Seemed like an unusual merging of the voices of Robert Creeley and Emily Dickinson -- Dickinson's careful considering rhythm, and Creeley's halting, hesitant voice. Enjoyed reading this.

luc u! said...


thanks! although it the basic narrative voice (if you could call it that) is masculine... ...but i was conscious of my approach to soften that some... ...so that is encouraging to me. thanks for the note!


didi said...

It felt like an argument with yourself -- very interesting. I like the title for this one as IOWA.


luc u! said...


IOWA is a much better title.

thanks didi.