A late night writing dump of Poetry. Still prepping for the rapidly approaching reading, and working on various projects. Life is taller than the Berlin wall, and twice as thick. I need a pick-ax that prevents sleep. 6/10/2012


This Website has now been armed. 5/15/2012



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Facebook: Farmer John Zanath


The rain runs in slick rivers,
turning finger-prints and warm breath
to frost on tinted glass.
Smiles glow electric and catch
the mist-choked salt-lamp orange.

Hands map hands.
Documenting calluses,
work-built veins,
knots of grip-muscle,
and scars that spot knuckles.

She asks things she shouldn't.
Questions picking at locked answers,
popping rusty tumblers,
straining against too-old springs.
Pulling out buried memories.

I answer with slick truth,
giving just enough to remove
curiosity from the air.
Half-lies seeping out
From an automated mouth.

Palm on thigh, crawling up like spiders
The rush of adrenaline, suffocating
Everything but lust.
Too simple now to say yes
Like slitting lambs' throats.

An invisible fist to my frontal lobe,
Meet Mr. Conscience, born after
A laundry list of mistakes,
Viper eyes telling me to play nice.

I move her wrist, delicate.
"Another time, soon though." I say,
Look away and step out into the chill
Trail away like animated concrete

Shake my head
To the heartbeat of traffic.
To a Bluesman growling somewhere
about doing right by her.