Monday, June 25, 2018

into which i happen to go fuck myself

names in light of lottery
    legs into a hollow stew

after hours
    hanging nights     beside my bed
cried in the bathrooms

echoes off     dirty tile

a beige puzzle of wall
     bandage it over with mandala sighs
the lines have sweated
faces dented          rewarded

a steaming nirvana     over the toilet

flush     this many times is what I've dreamt

painting graffiti washing stickers

with my vomit

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

and some of the coins were black


a lot of people pick up your change in the street

you've suffered for those many


a fucking multitude of pain

children in cages are paint by numbers

the scene

                 is enraged

my money is on the subtle march of time
and you say who gives a fuck

we got guns
and an invitation to a barbecue

charring the bones will rid you of the bodies

and clear out the stench

a mouse carcass on my stoop
                                                impregnated by flies
it looks on a map like your full hips
your round lips
                          your bulbous shape

I vomited on it
                         before I cleaned it up

I fondled the coins deep set
in my pocket
                      I just now

remembered to wash
my hands

Thursday, June 14, 2018


when i drink from the fountain
my hair twirling in drain     pushed by tides
     i see     i am kept alive
taking sustenance like livestock
corralled in my squared up     world
kept hydrated     perpetually working off of
pulling like from plumbed water
drying my every     eye
peering into the mortal bin
dripping into pipes
drowning     sip for sip.

Monday, June 11, 2018

Acid rain on sand

I'm a gecko petroglyph
drawn by meat puppets
through the southwest
American desert heaven
drinking dry rain
eating mother marshmallow's

Saturday, June 9, 2018

...that water'll get to ya

The birthplace of the atomic bomb
a can of lifeless Arizona ice tea
the mushroom cloud of hydrogen gas
burning the retina of the atmosphere
rising at slow motion detection
the native fungi of the america continent
national lifeform of the cause
a marshmallow Armageddon
released in the breaking of a tab

Friday, June 8, 2018

I love your gray cat what-s-his-name

what's the name without his legs
living in a tree stump in kesselwood forest

there are no badgers on the east coast

they haven't emigrated
                                     but enough about
me and what in the hell is it like to climb
below the cavern walls

probably in 1983

first time I noticed you by the tin can water fountain
banging on the corrugated sides

what's that material
                                if he's talking about plastic

I wonder why?  there wasn't fuck to give
to dead things because you'd have to bury the whole fucking thing

poor quality static makes everything
stage-like played through tape on a VHS

what's gotta give name on the fanzine
to cancelled children's programming

this place is not the gig it's the aforementioned before

chain-link prequel to the fence bitten through

what's it like to chew on the thing
to swallow the broken tubes

fuck if I know about any of this
of any of this fuck if i know

Super group; or semi-colon

can;t drink on the j;ob

fuck in buttered rice

it doesn;t exist; this character is like

the end of the world

the instruction booklet
is a training regime; sucking up the nail


fuck the laugh track in the live show
the audience is a bullet in the cock; farming

is a fictitious waste
spilling out the humanoid power plant

stumble upon it; put the nee;dle on it

play the spinning flat ass earth

you can fuck with the midd;le; you can die

great text messages

Drawn lines; or drainage ditch

your pencil runs down the page
marking the journal for removal

a wide angle X

but drawn like a seat belt strap
pulled over the eyes

there were none

they go

there were none
                          without two lanes

not a car drives by
built like a trash truck
to pick up the razors
left rusty in
drainage gutters
cemented into street

not a hand turns
in any aspect ratio

not a mouth mimes
where'd it go

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

the cat watches you shower; or soap

your face makes puddles on the floor
in them i focus on your shadow

i am naked

from offscreen the tiles
collect moisture
from undeath mold
prepares its growth

i am beyond my time of death

your presence draws water to the bathmat
on it i place my distant feet

i am removed

your shadow follows my dried corpse
when we enter the room i turn out the light

the bed will take its most solid form

the cat will watch me sleep

Monday, June 4, 2018

Maggot; or one coat of paint

They tell me

Paint these walls white
when I'm done

when I do I see maggots
writhing in rough spaces

When you wipe your finger over them
leaving trails of caulk and smooth

You smother me in their bodies
I watch them replace my teeth

Biting into the walls
despite of myself

I plant them deep

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

the intake is exhaust

cat leaves a lasting impression on 
windowsill. the wind steals into 
the room through the screen. not
enough to cool my sweat. the motion
of the cars outside is static. an accident
leaves a man groaning on the sidewalk.
a woman asks did you see?
                                            I thought
it was a bumper, he looked plastic. he
was dying. if I'd seen it move then maybe.
a body leaves an impression in the 
grass. cars continue crunching fragments
of glass. the impression is his last
breath. the intake is exhaust.

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Make trout fishing in america, America again

Casting light into pool
          Pulling the sun along
A statue crouching against rock
          Tied to the river's surface by line
Dividing the water into morning
Threading of fish reflection
          Through stone
The current is the opposite of time
           It does not move in any direction

Friday, March 30, 2018

a shirt we could not afford

we didn't read our fortunes
     because the tiles were supernaturally
we pressed the cookie against our teeth
     waiting for a phone to
we soaked the paper with our pen
     forwarding the bones to the mortgage
we rested the morsels against our tongues
     hoping they would dry before the first
we would not hear about the future
     in which we would come to
we wrapped the blood from the feast
     in the shirts we could not
we did not believe in words
     we questioned what they would mean to

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

into the life

the cancerous edge of the knife
fillets the animal form. life
is the fleeting beauty of the
butterfly. the blood coagulates
in the crevice drawing the body

             the wings are the
limited reality of flesh
and the life which has been
               to the mouth
pulling out all there is
pink rain drops on a
mirror. you must drip
and swallow. you must
chew and spit.
place into the warm pool
your nightmares. plunge
heart and paint the soul
red. to purify the blade
one must trade the life.

Monday, March 26, 2018


my mother's bedroom began with one stuffed bear
in the afternoon through thick curtains the sun shines
a pale peach light on them illuminating a calm layer of dust

there are several shelves of bears
recently they have begun to sink and recline on the floor
at night they sit still eyes transfixed
to glow faintly in the haze of suburban street lamps

these bears are my mother's heart overflowing
I can see my father in them my sister my brother
myself I see 30 years of children 20 years in the same home
I see the life of great pets now gone

in the morning my mother wakes early
she looks upon her own love
the bears stare back with sorrowful glassy eyes
filled with adoration and love