Cal Bedient

Put Them in a Hundred Books. Let Them Choose their Mausoleum.

You should always speak the little fires are walking you. I am not diseased with the remark.
Love cares to see the blackened tongues. Two / three: beautiful to me.

You smell of a gathering head stir. You should free the little speeds are in you.
You are beautiful when you go crazy like that.

Your people, their legs rolled up for carrying, stare from the horizon of your pockets.
You should always go up and down the world with them, they are your darlings,

they are not sparrows,
they are not sparrows running like rats on the cloud sleeves.

You break open their chests like the fish St. Peter split to find a coin for the tribute.
You smell of their money. You smell of dives where a prick like you is hated.

Do that again and Iíll tell mama. Why should I come here like a private life
with a lunch pail and take a seat in the situations?

Once I peeked through your mail slot
and caught a glimpse of your quiet individual self-formed taste,

the thousand pegs and pins. You were beautiful to me.
I must have wanted you dead to see you so.

The horses I could eat, back country beauties farting lush grass,
if I still hungered for you. Each of my bruises

wears your yellow-green ring. But mine isnít a selfish sorrow:

You should always flick our way the ash of the little laughs are in you:
an Incomplete like you would be wanting company.


Polyester Perversities

suit #1

        Missing on the other side? north wall. I got him back. He could have been someone
wasn't for me.
      My immense heil didn't bother him until he sat on the river bottom, head back, silver fish
thrashing head down in his throat, and slapped his hat against his knee in time to the pleasure is all

suit #1a

          I represent the captain in all legal matters.

suit #2

          A fish knife with its oceanliner gleams's the school for me.

suit #3

In heavenly harmony fully dethinged they came, the hours, mention of why declined, and went
on their way as prettily as possible, not looking, swiftly easily on their way, their teeth laughing at the foretaste, more easily killed lying down, imagine the sounds of people eating together in another room, barbarians.

suit #4

   Childhood nearly it makes me speak credulous to remember.
   The shovel arouses me. Paint it from lip to lip.
   The Soap Lake reds, the Spokane creams, the very personal Winthrop mauves. Did it always flirt like this, batting its pond eyes?
   I have been dancing a long time before I was anything I was the one and the two and the one,
and the one I was, too, who came at me exacting plenty.

suit #5

If I had a pet my life said it wouldn't be you it would be an intended thing.
She juts out from my dissatisfaction like the deck at night when itís black and bright yellow, the
conversation a bee on a bush of darkness.

suit #6

I lived like Frederick Church's Sunset Evening in the West stored lengthwise in the Seattle Art Museum, rounding its shoulders and holding still so as not to spill the two boys fishing from the boat. I loved the tiny woman in the pioneer skirt lifting a bucket at the well then we were coming a leg over the fence like a bloom on a glass building, passing, and I look her in the face, jesus, and I ask: do you have the time.