Rough Day

Title Page
 Note to the Reader
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Table of Contents
 What\'s in these books that have come to me
 A mile outside of Yellowstone
 What is silence for
 Rage: after the funeral
 Our bare brief jeweled guitar
 You might have to
 What my mother loves is solitaire
 Light chores between first and second sleep
 Ice recoils tonight from marshes
 Meanwhile I am preparing
 Some parts of speech are harder to draw
 One time I fell down got cut
 At times I want to walk off the set of my body break my name and burn it
 Midnight radio from Astoria plays funk. Let me try this clumsy again at dawnThe historical marker is a form of guilt
 The condo held the rock star\'s body like a puppet
 I haven\'t ruined my body yet with joy
 Whatever I have been doing all my life I am doing now
 I\'ll try to stop singing
 When word comes the emperor of the world has died
 No longer a kid I have come to the grave
 You were beside me at the start of this
 On river road the moon suspends
 When I land and get in the taxi
 Outside my apartment
 Affixed to upper balconies of the World Bank
 I\'m in Washington and
 Like a die that is only real every sixth throw. Grizzled countenance of morningI am a child of ghosts
 His grin\'s upside-down police cruiser
 Each friendly encounter is a basement
 I write her name on every napkin
 Money is a bandage where above the oak
 My mother is a ferocity on the Hilton Hotel roof
 By now the hospital has unfolded
 I am an event in my sudden willed loner\'s mute drama
 Last light of summer glints off the motorcade
 The stoned guy from the first floor
 How we tear the billboard down is how we tear the house down
 John Donne was dean of St. Paul\'s
 I hear that people are dying in America with the very. It is the reverse of everythingA dying man is almost grown
 After the matinee I feel acutely
 My name\'s in the forest
 From inside the secondhand store I admire
 In the industrial kitchen I take red debris from the dish
 In salmon silence of nineteen
 Cottonwoods parse their shadows along the river
 The grill is wrapped tight against the autumn sprinkler
 Above the canal tonight by the willow overhang
 These on the other hand are orderly
 The old man we pick up in Browning
 It was my blanket first and she took it
 A train runs late through my arms
 Ospreys nest their rising dollars upright. At the western outfitters the clerkAbout the Author
 Books by Ed Skoog
 Links
 Acknowledgments
 Copyright
 Special Thanks.