wind lariat twine unspooled

her curly red hair

to blend matches in moist 

wildfire hiccups

cheap beer blunts like wind

unwinding fire

swale home keystone

years in the woods on the bank of an ancient creek,
creek stone boulders my foundation
roots my hair and stairs to the bath under the narrow canyon sky
oaks older than fire
and trails made by deer and human ten thousand years hence
in a meadow by a spring
running down five hundred feet in june
three thousand nights in near wilderness
only populated by hermits misfits vigilantes and nestmakers
walking the creek by moonlight barefoot
how many times
down to the candles in my strawbale bedroom with a stone floor
cool in summer, warm in winter
home




9-15-20

isn't isn't

unknown region isn't eluded google's net

unknown region isn't the seychelles

unknown region isn't a sub in the columbia

unknown region isn't a dacha in maryland

unknown region isn't a hub or fusion center

unknown region isn't a drone and all the other above things

unknown region isn't a pubic inplant

unknown region isn't a fiber optic nest of lies

unknown religion isn't a region nor is it vatican

unknown region isn't negative space hiding plain sight

unknown region isn't getting away with everything

unknown region isn't a studio ghibli anime

unknown region isn't in a race to anonymity

unknown region isn't gerrymandered or german intel

unknown region isn't full of refugees and slaves

unknown region isn't lacking red ink or radar

unknown region isn't for the have nots

unknown region isn't warm in the antarctic vodka stew

unknown region isn't masked like a gru batman

unknown region isn't a caterpillar pushing down settlements

unknown region isn't capable of lone ranger jokes

unknown region isn't a fourth dimensional intrusion

unknown region isn't harboring decent water

unknown region isn't yet, nyet

unknown region isn't a trillionaire's hobby horse

unknown region isn't hopping with mirrored fleas

unknown region isn't a tool of confidence men

unknown region isn't false/true or between/addresses

unknown region isn't the map to our inner circle

unknown region isn't fog draped liberty holding a torch

unknown region isn't worth the cramp or crap

unknown region isn't born to crawl honestly

unknown region isn't a pandora can of giggles

unknown region isn't particular about hosting

unknown region isn't manned by cyborg serfs

unknown region isn't chuck barris in a paper sack

unknown region isn't doomed to the funny pages

unknown region isn't a dart board made of air

unknown region isn't a stable genius or noble twit

unknown region isn't O

unknown -regional, a truman show on steroids

unknown rejion ain't above the flaw

unknown region cain't tie its own flip flops

unawaeegion won't sequester the molester

unknown region dupes the media scoops

unknown region isn't a pea under the prince's futon

unknown region isn't likely

unknown region isn't a stopover for gulliver or odysseus

unknown region isn't a grey zone of wolves

unknown region isn't GPS on LSD or the CIA's LCD

unknown region isn't in the right lane

unknown region isn't space saying YO whassup

unknown region isn't a flat balloon or a halo

unknown region isn't atlas holding gaia on his shoulders

unknown region isn't much help nor hinderance

unknown region isn't a smoke free zone for harmony

unknown region isn't aware of poetry

unknown region isn't on the tourist slate for yaks

unknown region isn't semi autonomous or partially woke

unknown region isn't a constellation to implore

unknown reach'n isn't carte blanche or a pussygrabbed siren

is it? 

Midland Review #5 Spring 1989 Letter, re The Fourth of July

Graduation Letter 1985, Rear Admiral J.S. Champlin, Great Uncle

Dear Forest,

It May have been Mark Twain who said to a reporter
"I don't care what you say about me
but please spell my name right!"

You also got our zip code wrong
and can blame that on Sis Dorothy,
I'll bet. We forgive you.

Congratulations of finishing the first lap
of the big rat race. Good luck from here on!

JS Champlin

5-25-87




His sister Ruth certainly was thinking of the Youngblood Hotel in Enid, not her great nephew

Forest L. Bloodgood!!!

round

to walk into portland's living room
and smell sage burning, drums
clearing, beautiful people
all around





6-5-20

preacher and the slave joe hagglund hill

the cave art covers everything public
like christo in sprayfeint

no smoking carcasses to speak of, other
than workers neglected

lest i lie we got to the 25 bricks
hearst orders  in deadwood but never

put his name on in pie o joe hill square
which more circular and indian

than martyr swede
does not negate

sol
i
dare
airity


"Joe Hill (October 7, 1879 – November 19, 1915), born Joel Emmanuel Hägglund and also known as Joseph Hillström, was a Swedish-American labor activist, songwriter, and member of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW, familiarly called the "Wobblies").

 A native Swedish speaker, he learned English during the early 1900s, while working various jobs from New York to San Francisco.

 Hill, an immigrant worker frequently facing unemployment and underemployment, became a popular songwriter and cartoonist for the union.

 His most famous songs include "The Preacher and the Slave" (in which he coined the phrase "pie in the sky"),

"The Tramp", "There Is Power in a Union", "The Rebel Girl", and "Casey Jones—the Union Scab", which express the harsh and combative life of itinerant workers, and call for workers to organize their efforts to improve working conditions.:_

red wing (2018)

today we will borrow the red-wing blackbird

from the dizzying array,

viewed through an amber periscope,

under the influence

of earl grey's fog laden orchestra,

moving like the cursor

of beauty's greater drone

or a figment of wealth,

his epaulets and omnivorous appetite

shine the scabby paint railing

free of corn tidbits,

no tool of time

transcendent departed to

loan the lawn a sword of song







1-24-18
Portland Or

A Bump On the Head (2018)

The injured one, injures all, not inured in isolation;

A bad apple, metaphor sly weakens, rots the nation

     spreading bruise from falls or shoves,

     the outcast shadow lengthens  views on love


Done a wrong turn, "no fault of my own,"

Lucifer removed from god rib's glowing bone

     "dropped down among man, hurting us all"

     say the barrel of monkeys about the fall


Kicked out, pariah, nay saying scapegoat

Silver spoon don in his velvet waistcoat

     directing the masses, his mental instability;

     fascist-product of being dropped in his infancy,


   down on don's head a crown glowing Red

   his injured mind wishing escape from his Head




1-11-2018

Caliban # 9, Forest Bloodgood "hairbrain"

http://www.calibanonline.com/store.html



#9 includes an art portfolio by Kisoon Griffith, interviews with zydeco musicians Wayne Toups and Nathan Williams, and work by Gerald Vizenor, Wanda Coleman, Dionisio Martinez, Diane Wakoski, Antonio Porta, Spencer Selby, Forest Bloodgood, Dieter Weslowski, Christopher Davis, John M. Bennett, Melissa Monroe, Ronnie Burk, Ray DiPalma, Edouard Roditi, Simon Perchick, Louise Erdrich, Michael Dorris, John Bradley, Sonya Hess,  Joel Lewis, Amanda Yskamp, Edward Smallfield, Sheila E. Murphy, Stephen Ratcliffe, Kevin Walker, John Lindgren, Silvia Curbelo, Greg Mulcahy, George Kalamaras, Raymond Federman, David Huerta, Jeanne M. Beaumont, Edward Mycue, Nico Vassilakis, Jay Passer, Christina-Marie, John Bell, Jose Quiroga, Judith Roitman, Gaspar Aguilera Diaz, Lisa Cooper, B.Z. Niditch, Tyrone Williams, and Guy R. Beining.

Allegheny Review 1987

In the Hammersmith Garage

_________________________________

winter prys its icy fingers

into the crack of the huge sliding door,

pointed colors gust in the car exhaust.

greasy joe slides under a car

&wrenches at pipes, straining

not unlike a man milking a cow

in the frost of four a.m. iowa

he loosens a nut that drains the oil

and the cow wobbles

weakheaded. he puts a feedsack over the hood

and gives the back fender a

fleshy, familiar slap

Lawrence, Kansas 1987

published in the Allegheny Review

won William Herbert Carruth Poetry prize at K.U.

ads for dirty epitaphs

the old seed bread  

thrown under the laurels

turns to soil frosting as 

onepartoxygentwopartshydrogen

resembles rain in isolation extreme,

from what is read
about that once prolific phenomena, 

before droplets in general
were criminalized

and cattle with tubes attached

carry milk straight to the sewer,

as wilbur has a buttermilk bath  

and spiders write ads for dirty epitaphs 

in the rafters
at the processing plant 

       tossed
out of view

 from the interstate nearby



may 2, 2020
siberia

Sincerely, Andrei Codrescu (October 12, 1988)

internationals on cinderblocks

cracks me up that tom brady was caught
working out 
at a public park, playing on the merry 
go round, just enjoying freedom
out of the spotlight
for once.

makes me pine
that OR 7 the oldest oregon wolf
has gone absent without grief
from his mangy pack.
perhaps he travels to cameo
far away, where there ain't 
spy cameras disguised as blinking bracken.

gazelles and giselles 
need not hide
nor pelt some ghost
of quarry hewn amber
with ants immortalized,
strong
asleep. sap  layer cake
by the acre from trees
with legs larger than internationals
on cinderblocks.




4-22-20
oregon

ossuary cradle

a nest on the sidewalk from earth
day, undamaged other than unperched, and no broken
eggs or treaty tape parade

as perfect as nature's components,
the ash sprig  in an ossuary cradle of willow
matted with dog hair and moss

radagast pauses,
a cheap china made umbrella in the hand
to replace the habitat in

his everlasting beard



4-22-20
portland

Forest

hippo critic oaf

the ant materializes

strutting across the top of the laptop.

it doesn't jump eagerly

to an offered finger for a ferry,

it views the warm pink mountain 

an obstacle foe.



it takes two fingers

to save an ant.


you can lead a hippo

to water, but you can't make them critic.

an oaf to secrecy, 

frozen in amber

in a collection of extinct species

managed by birthing blackholes




4-11-20
portland

unmansionables get it

the world may seem upside down

for those used to

being top hog,

getting first slops.

the pecking order now cheeps cheeps

inside the egg, that

perfect egg.


i say nothing to the man

on the contagion bus

as he picks his nose,

flicks a booger

he looks cross-eyed at,

eating what won't fly off.


i do however remark

to the stranger

in the entryway to the grocery store,

bent over forwards

as their jeans have crumpled down

past their knees, mooning

me and the worker spraying down the carts,

"hey dude pull up

your pants" is my only advice,

moving past toward

the perishables.


dignity in such situations

is highly suspect. better to be

the better part of human.


_________



kids don't get it

they can't. kids, used to hiding

playing peek a boo


hiding hiding as mom and dad

call out where are you?



parents don't get it,

hiding in their retirement

with a pantry full of 

whiskey and other staple goods,

watching the pond scum

reflect the clouds clouds clud.


government doesn't get it,

in their secure locations

with drones dropping off bonbons

and coveted life sustaining products.

where are you? we call into the attic,

down the pipes in submarines.

AWOL and busy walling off

so that the public

doesn't get

it.





4-5-20

portland