when i knew ron
i amused myself with poetry-chapbook-editorship
on a sagging computer
i wrote terrible poetry and i still do
but i was a nice guy or so i thought
i was like a politician who isn't bright enough to realize he's lying
i was like a cosmo model with chronic yeast infection
i was like a brother who mom finally admits is the child another man
i was like a stump in the yard - it won't rust but you still stub your toe on it
i had a brain like a coffee can, and one thought rolling like a marble
i made an annoying noise
i didn't choke on my angst, i swallowed it - if i could even find it

when i didn't know ron
i started a band and
did whatever drugs i found in the folds of the couch
and was the holder-for-the-man
which meant i had as much
coke as i wanted
as long as i didn't touch the stash
hidden in dirty folded socks behind the
milk jugs filled with warm urine
i played keyboards with fat white lines laid out on them
like thick african grubs tasty to the toothy natives
jazz licks rubbing my gums with the baggie
to this day i can only smell
shit and strawberries

when i knew ron
the mimeo mafia was a back-slapping
circle-jerk of polite assholes
and gorgeous bullshit
cigarette jewelry
intense boredom
and we were happy as aquarium gravel
our pockets full of monopoly money
and being online probably hasn't changed that
except they spell it 'phuck' now
like children passing notes in class a
fraid the teacher will take away their privileges

when i didn't know ron
i became a mountain recluse
in nawth carolinah
a unabomber wannabe
a nature-gatherer to the godess
i smoked mullein and drank sumac tea
couldn't afford a rusting trans-am
but i had the cinder blocks to put it on
i washed my hair in foam-flower root
when i didn't have paul mitchell
and when i ran out of foam-flower
harvested from the woods
i washed my hair in sperm
which lathers up nicely

when i knew ron
the world was on fire before y2k
why too, k-y jelly?
now we insert extra digits in our date
and its no different
we called it peking not beijing
and we all have atm cards
and the goth poets wear black trench coats
probably london fog
and can't tell the difference between
there, their, and they're

when i didn't know ron
i screwed prozac babes in west palm bitch, fl
they'd appear at my door at 3 am
butt naked but for cokebottle glasses
crying because i said something

when i knew ron
todd moore read my poems
and only commented about
the one that mentioned a fart
lonnie sherman wouldn't get in my
$100 18foot car
and kurt nimmo didn't want
me to park near his house
which was where we wanted the car to die
because it was detroit
and fitting

when i didn't know ron
i realized i hadn't known ron
just a guest in his poetry
but i know enough to realize
that evoking his name
will make you want to finish this poem
and the closest i ever got to knowing ron was when
we ran that highway ragged
the car lurching and wheeling in my hands
both of us outside ourselves on drugs of choice
and though i talked to hear my head roar
i heard a great beautiful silence within him
what some people read as 'general unease'
and i knew ron's great comfort was that void
that gaping laughing hole that lay before us

when i knew ron
everybody knew ron
and lusted with him after his bathing suit neighbor
hoping tupperware would hold in the juices
he knew i was the anti-ron
he wanted to slip tongue to a chaotic world while
i wanted button-down, apple pie answers
and i crafted shitpoems that ended neat-and-snappy
like an epiphany of rust
or a coagulation of body-jello
he knew he would last
and i wouldn't
chaos always lasts
order gets hung up like laundry
stiff in the wind
but not like a dick

when i didn't know ron
i lived in ohio with my father
watching him die
in a rented bed with chrome rails
so the shit and piss
wouldn't flop out with him
while i learned medical procedures to keep him
alive while i wiped his ass
while i spun tales into the dark night for him so he could sleep
while i cried as he slept
while i drove to zanesville
to make out with fat women
with stubble so bad i know
i'll never kiss a man who
doesn't shave

when i knew ron
i didn't know shit
now i don't know ron
and i still don't know shit
it's still just another day
trying to hit a cigarette butt
in the toilet
with my stream

familiar demons

I think the devil
hates getting to know his victims
too well.
Oh, he loves his craft
and a good soul sent
spinning to hell
after a calculated shot
can make or break a day.

So though
this fallen angel
rules supreme in his domain
he often sends
lesser
greener demons
to do his bidding
(delegation of authority is important too)
to learn the joyful anguish
of balance.

More often still
the devil
does nothing -
he knows that
giving up
and
letting humans snare themselves
are not the same thing.
Humans, with all their choice
would invent the devil
and maybe already have
if he didn't exist.

A dream, a woman, a wallet on the ground.
Like any good businessman
the devil respects the sobering fact
that he's replaceable.