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


Night sky is raining down like
Black tar being burned away by
White-hot head-lamps.
Balding rubber's holding
The ground with a newborn's grip.

The back road is empty -- paved soldier
footpaths through serpent hills -- lined with
Guerilla trees that jump in front
of my caffeinated eyes
for a split-second before dodging
Back into the dark.

I'm outrunning the weather,
The screaming, the wet eyes fading
With the retreating thunder
And distant shocks of lightning.
Loose asphalt attacks the air behind me.

I'm evading stupid sayings
like "I think I love you",
And "I'm sorry, but I can't", she told me
In front of a run-down dorm.
In her plaid pajamas, she was a doctor,
Telling me I had terminal cancer.

Thin streaks of obsidian water
roll down glass to the invisible earth,
Inching to the radio tempo –the storm's
death rattle - the punk blare reminds me
of underground kids tripping through the night
- warmed by fire-barrels and car-skeleton shelters.

I breathe through a cigarette, exhale
Out of my nose like old-timers I joked with
In Cleveland and inner-city artists I argued with
In Nashville. The ending storm drags out the scents,
Of wild flowers and amputated grass.

I'll drive fast and long and far,
Until the engine seizes and trembles
I'm only three hours away from that
Destructive love scene
And it's not distance enough.

I just keep looking forward,
And up -- nothing in the sky but dim guiding stars,
The moon's left his home vacant.

Because, in the cracked rear-view,
My eyes are dilated and heavy,
The world is gone behind me
With no proof of anything, but