Douglas Kearney

Came I was way out as it flies

but an easy green and skies

isn’t it? My cul-de-end is a nice, though

it’s like the knot I keep my knickers in 

to hey there stay here. Damn right

I’d rather not not squat some pissy asphalt

plot not. Rather put-em-up where I got

to picket in self-defense? Not no but if so

then where’d I roost my hoodie

among cooing polyphony? A no-go a no-no unless

I’m turned around. Awful’s everywhere I was—

I couldn’t see me there—only pinions. 

I’ve eyefuls of my absence everywhere

I’m here I go. Hey there I caw now

and mow and mow and mow. 

    (a torchon after Indigo Weller)

Some need some Body

or more to ape sweat

on some site. Bloody

purl or dirty spit

hocked up for to show

who gets eaten. Rig

Body up. Bough bow

to breeze a lazed jig

and sway to grig’s good

fiddling. Pine-deep

dusk, a spot where stood

Body. Thus they clap

when I mount banc’, jig

up the lectern. Bow

to say, “it’s all good,”

we, gathered, withstood

the bends of dives deep

er, darker. They clap

as I get down. Sweat

highlights my body,

how meats dyed bloody

look fresher for show

ing, I got deep, spit

out my mouth, a rig

id red rind. Bloody

melon. Ha! No sweat!

Joking! Nobody

knows the trouble. Rig

full o’ Deus. “Sho

gwine fhx dis mess.” Spit

in tragedy’s good

eye! “This one’s called. . . .” Jig

ger gogglers then bow

housefully. They clap.

“. . . be misundeeeerstoooood!”

Hang notes high or deep,

make my tongue a bow—

what’s the gift?! My good

song vox? The gift?!?! Jig

gle nickels from deep

down my craw. They clap.

I’se so jolly! Stood

on that bank. Body

picked over, blood E

rato! Braxton’s sweat

y brow syndrome®, spit

out a sax bell wring
a negrocious show

of feels. Fa sho, sweat

equals work. Bloody

inkpot of Body,

I stay nib dipped, show

never run dry! Rig

orously, I spit

out stressed feet. Lines jig!

Ha ha ha ha!!!! good

one [that/I] is, bow

deep but not out. Stood,

shining, dim. They clap,

waves slapping hulls. Deep

don’t mean sunken; good’s

not yummy, right?! Bow,

blanched with foam, jig-jigs.

“This one’s called. . .”—they clap—

“‘_ _ _  _ _ _ _ _ _   _ _ _ _ _barrow.’ So much dep

ends / upon / dead_ _ _ _ _ _ _”; stood, 

I, on that bloody

rise of sweet Body;

there you is, too. Sweat

it, let’s. They clap—“Rig

ht?” some ask, post. Spit

tle-lipped: I said: “Sho.”