Prehumously [for Viktor Bout]

I came by way of sailors
who flood the coast with Stuff

A transplant fifteen hours
packed in all kinds of swag
the cabin there

was supposedly his,
dark curtains, quieted
nervous until sleep

expecting to wake into
that yellowed print:
carbines & Kevlar,

fevered summer of
Côte D’Ivoire—once immune
Motherland

I came dreaming
(not as myself but I knew him)
I seemed instantly aged

& steps behind him, he
who they say sells Death,
asleep in this room

making Past for life in constant Self revision,
securing luxuries, peddling misdirection

Devils make brew

When pawned souls drink stiffest:
Postpartum;
I swill dark mash from tubs
nursing from tundra
See entry: plains, swamp, lapse
You—
breathe it too, like  
water

With out flinching, static
the Cogs or cash/coin
tips; have our way with them;
     Just these ghosts and I
Taking out swine—ten potato
then a decade, moving on,
leave the underworld tapped

surface & repeat

SILENCE: garden in a wood

Because I have braved twice as many
awkward years,
my voice seeks you and misses.

If it is asked, a response will be
inflammatory—of course,
has at least that been learned?

A breath can sharpen one’s
perfect hate
or your love as mania;

that canine delusion
ripens
in a grand gnarl of root.

Settled between our phantoms;
The Saint of Fleeting
gives his love with the burning end.

We notice little of change,
as nothing is right,
We remain calm;

Where you would have normally
planted plots,
Sweet Williams overwhelm.

Three ways not to listen to charlie hunter

I.
Listen, Gordon!  I love this tune!  I can’t remember the last time  
what was it, London, a year ago?  At the Rouge?  Were we in Hamburg?
Oh, Illinois, that stuffy, shitty charity rent-out, I hate em, too easy to drink
that night?  don’t really remember…it was probably great, I think,
I nailed the coat checker somewhere—how did we get home anyway?  
Everything’s hazy after Hunter passed the joint, yeah he does
he’s kind of an asshole but he writes good;
somehow he gets the calls; his pocket’s deep
there was a crowd around him all night, something happen?  
I heard he killed the set that night.


II.
The sun’s up, it always is
when I realize it’s too late;
I committed myself
to an obsessive-compulsive bandleader
with violent tendencies;
I needed the work,
blew myself up until he agreed
but now I’m cramming
a few years’ arpeggios and work ethic overnight
I’m not even sure he’s worth it, what am I doing?
I’m a paid fool,
he’s gonna scalp me for fun;
who knows after tonight’s episode:
I still feel bad for those poor people—
who could have seen it?


III.
Dear Charlie, (can I call you Charlie?)
My name’s Anthony Montgomery and I’m from Indianapolis, Indiana.  I am 10 and a half years old.  I think you are the best guitar player.  I have all your records.  My dad says you’re not as good as my grampa.  He says you’d know him; he used to play guitar too a long time ago.  He says I’ll be good too but I tell him never as good as you.  You’re great.  Really, really great.  I saw you before in St. Louis with my tarantula Moses. He had fun but was sad we couldn’t talk.  I’m excited that you’re coming back to town.  My dad says he’ll take me for my birthday.  I can’t wait; I’m going to run right up to you for your autograph.  Moses is coming too!
Your biggest fan,
Anthony