An Aspen or Sycamore expanding

The window from which i'm surveying
defines me
condensation holds
outlines of heavy breath
the magnitude of the sycamore this morning
(despite my best efforts)
will simply not leave
with the white evil of bumbling ghosts
or with father caught crunching leaves
for the sake of crunching's sake
casting autumn scowl
onto the adsorbing white void

A Poem For Toney McCrann by Rich Wyatt

"The Soul, Addressing Itself, Wanders Around Right After Death" by Rich Wyatt

On so much of this ground you'll
find what the wasp buried, not much,
and the voice-bearing others whose names are lost. Who cares.
Hand me that spoon and that fork and we'll dig
for an hour, evening on our shoulders like an incentive,
a habit, the many molecules called stars
searching out a body under and over the always-black sea
we can't even now grasp like water from a rushing stream. Go
on and mention me to your friends, you'll have a time
explaining the lilac bushes so briefly attentive,
the season, too, over in a minute.
I stopped once and had coffee in Nick's, on 3rd Street.
I remember everyone's face there as my own, as I tapped
my fingernails on the window next to the booth, out of nervousness.

Beans

ive left a can of lucky green beans on my microwave

To be honest I have had no intention of eating them today

nor will I tomorrow

time is cruel and gets crueler to all

but canned food

I walk backward towards my mattress

brushing my teeth and eyeing the southwest corner of my room

in which the radiation box sits in

its funny

but my space heater and microwave will not run at the same time

running them in such a reckless way often prompts

me to phone my land lord and have him "flip the breaker"

Eatting Snails

any sequence of contours and lines
messed up or stored
dried solid between my muddy hand print
and woody snags
I want to believe
the river in winter
is as it was last June

when my brother baptized me
in the depths of the Missouri's murk
the disadvantages of the past spinning
nearly disappearing with pools of filth
from my beard

I am evil with age
growing this fervor
learning to love things more
or at any extant possible
and vanish ego in this
polluted river