Sunday, December 28, 2008

The Cause Of Birth Is The Will To Be Born

Poison continues the soul.
Pets ahoy
And waiting a week before the savoring.
Local's been tagging me to fly with patriots for flextime.
The clown in there is a testicle times twelve.
My testicles bump accidentally and get zipped up
While I stand in line to buy our season tickets.
Them apples been begging me to sneak sponges there
Every New Year's.
Somebody chases us out.
The clones make love and sex seem dutiful.
Their names are on the bill.
The next time I live in New York I'm renting a car and staying at a hotel.
Our clones watch everything to try so I
Stew them a sanity downsized.
The doors do not hold.
The doors do not.
Hold not, the doors do not.
The not do the doors hold.
And next time I live in a small town I'm renting a small town mentality.
City gals in tight gray jeans watch my testicles jump.
They work hard and attend all the Super Bowl games.
Beseech me, I bill everything I try.
A preparation for what evacuates often.
Lunch on this decal to be prepared.
This is a sanity I do not hold.
Apartment houses of low tolerance.
About a half an ounce finishes the earlier.
I have two beers and accidentally zip up my testicles.
A preparation on this decal evacuates often.
Small towns in tight gray jeans clone every soul continuing.
Love and sex seem dutiful and begging for the Super Bowl.
We poison experiences of objects that fact the.
We want to be born.
Consciousness identifies itself with its embryo.
The fact that people die causes people in this world.
The cause of birth is the will to be born.
Total hours worked carry over from one calender year to the next for purposes of calculating
Should you check during a meal or rest break.
Experience the primal cleansing.
Shoot whiskey like a body bag do.
I talked this morning already.
I omit what the ribbons excuse.
Sleeves we sample explain to me
Strawberry therapy
Protected from an experience of God.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Nara, Japan, October 2006

7 Rejected Poems To Gloat


Surfaced ripples of width
Intend another day.
Bones thrown where they belong
Disintegrate all the same.

I follow your skin
Feeling us for home.
You refuse me.
You refuse me nothing.

Our soul is the clay
Mending a vision after it funds
The chatter of other worlds and maps of horror
Our debt shall bring.

In time, an eyeless mammal
Greases the frantic pavement
With our scorn
Clothed a treason because it whines.

O wrathful moon of solid bat,
My master licks the tickle of his stormy complication.
O solid bat moon of warped sunset,
My master won't live through centuries lubricated.

I am followed everywhere I wane,
Breathless in rebirth
And broken to save
Violets for your tan.


It take so many shrimp to target vulnerability.
Traveling round the chlorine, my failures point.
To return a golden lover upon termination,
An access flush meets its exit.
Each morning, my thighs shine against a railing.
Entrances into lotions are temporarily removed.
Upon termination, the escort erases her salvaged crumbs.
Aware of emptiness, the pond is merry.
Scripts sign out like constipated secrets.
The dangle fails
That time where your lips licked furniture.
My passwords change as my sex changes.
Find this ritual which the goat rinses.


The alien niche
That can own
Watches something suffer
Through my thoughts upon suffering
And then I puff
A kidney's four yawns
Making myself the whiplash
Where the body is interlaced
An opal crib of trifling doubles
For demons not wattage
And there they glow
Diverting the night like wind
In or spiting pampered clover
Winded in a scene of panhandlers
Many as children my noodles may afford
All bound and money friendly
O God we shroud the wrong digits
And hustling fog
The choices move necessarily to comfort
A pamphlet against conductive thrills
As you whimper
I am ready to settle
I'll repay you on a score
Submitting the mannered and scripted
Sources of wiped happiness
That soon we'll be stuffed with.


Humbled by the hate
Arresting nauseous planets,
I'm sorry you are cloaked
And will never be mined.

Seven cigarettes bide my gums
Tipped bites of cheek and then hooves pack
Raw egg fishing shacks
Betting the rind is sensual.

Deprived a roof our hose films a tower
Murmuring the hashed descent.
The tower percolates a mammoth
Parade of voluptuous addicts
Searing wrappers for our discounted props.

Some are a daybreak derangement from what I eat to tread.
Some was what you ate with toast.
And you are silly about what I ate while bait.
As today you is in limbo
Eating my ashes in the quandary of tomorrow.


I'm dying bugged if also quite simply.
My gold already was a substance mulched
For the loan of one grid
Daring the passion hunted animals mentor.

Singing our grace had in malls
And a split with gentle mates,
Of plump
My genitals wave hamburger space.

And I envy those odors
Loathing lactic stars,
Edible when your lover knocks
Bipolar on principle.

While lovely his noggin competes to rage
In spirals the condemned expect without,
You forage instead the pattied no joint of cram
And forget who I hurt and redistribute.

Where dots and vultures meet,
These beams from my decree
Sling a sleet
Claiming its empire is as useful
As flyspunk on acid drops.


In the humidity I tug my joint
Preventing other wands from sliding to and fro.
Smart ladies poke fun at me
So I kick their lamps out.
After this, hip ladies seldom pout.
It's March. It's April.
The free gifts drink an ode of blood punch.
And in the pores upon my nose
We have our clothes on and reuse touch.
But damp along the month of May
I know who you are.
I'm your kind figured out.
I'm your kind you.
And Autumn arrives near the Winter sacrilege,
A three step cure waiting to strangle
Sleep channel shakers
Stuffing the yard what we're scabbed of.


The blisters bake
The riots raging.
The spectrum is chronological and ideal.
I expect anything the hightop sneakers expect, I expect
Blueberry waffles rising from our graves.
I massacre freely
A snap of moos on couch zits.
A meaty deer tainting my twin a pitching again
The coats, the coasts, a Lord of vacuums delightful,
Proves time is difficult,
As this smile is timed
To show a routine fist bleaching our ankles.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

4 Previously Published Poems


I recall being insane,
Retrieving war bonds for fresher breath.

I dial stitches.
I stitch scarves.
I hope next Christmas arrives soon.

My suds tame Jonah with half a gill.
My hype's expensive and grilled offensively
By slurps from butane tongues extensive.

I recall the insane
Revealed in stout tones of whoppers.
War with Iran by next Christmas!
Blow job from Miss Iran before Armageddon expires!

I mean
I memorize vital signs
Like a caveman half drunkenly rewinds breath.

I mean I fear
Buckles the scorched trees fuck hogtied.

(First appeared in Kill Poet, October 2007)


Like the salt lizard,
I haven't seen red lips
Since an actress saved my life
Minutes before the subway
Blew up.

You are the right word
Biting a spider scar
Not revealed
In daily nude costumes.

My incestuous bride
Wants me to know
That all invisible things
Appear in her dreams
As rainbow flames drinking water
Which cannot live.

(First appeared at Silenced Press, June 2007)


Hollow bells respond to cultures
Based on an orgy
Of cannibals
Tapping the bloated expanse framed order.

Handsome creatures riding
Roller coaster slush
Sip from the well
Of a desert's seductive oblivion.

My rapture is my adder
Tracing chains for boats that tug
Crumbled treasure.

My possessions reproduce handshakes
Tolerant to pocket any habit
Violence sheds.

Shivering harbors
Rushing to distort the tethered midnight
Cut loose my mocker of shores
Inhaling scattered permanence.

(First appeared in AGUA, July 2008)


Every tepid shooting incident
Unveils a gimmick
So easy for clumpy Barbados vacations to forge.
On the flaw of pregnancy
Sparkles instruct an inked piper
Hypnotizing ceiling tiles and ammunition.
Everywhere is stubborn
Savoring Middle East foreign clearance procedures
Depressive yet synchronizing
16 million toddlers distinguishable as designer braces.
These scabs on the knuckles of assassins
Index my pauses
Ladled in an opaque soup of aboriginal hexes.
And responding to an existential crisis
I patch myself
The crowded rat ashamed,
Submissively bopping corneas of noxious core.
I witness the homeless freebasing hairspray
And all I think about
Is if they can do it so can brand headquarters.
Stuck in Astoria
Muslim tweens rock Spider-Man backpacks,
Throw snowballs and munch Doritos.
Warriors, it worries me
When the poodle secures his pump on the sidewalk,
And Muslim tweens forfeit their chadors for diaphragms,
That Spider-Man must love Doritos also.
Juiced well before a toothbrush,
Gazebo orgies and crap producers pass out fluoride
Tempted by Kanye West's ripe cunt
Expanding like the consciousness of a self-actualized
Autonomous individual quitting cigarettes.
Honey, please share your Adderall
Shooting 16 million designer chadors abortive and hot.
The embedded demons are all that survive
My decoy wilderness
Implicating every abscess refugees meant to savor.

(First appeared in Brain Box, May 2008)

Saturday, December 6, 2008

3 Poems


I'd like to stalk something less depressing now.
I could use your tangy piece of ass
To be either really bland or accepting.
So I get on the bus from JFK and all the people were saying
They've been on the bus for over a half an hour.
And then I said are you fucking kidding me.
Two months have gone by since I directly understood what day it is.
Sometimes I think that the more aware of current events I am
The better my poems will present themselves as protest or rebuttal.
I could use a piece of ass.
I should fight in the war.
I would kill the man next to me.
I could then dig up this dead man's mother's corpse and strip her of her death dress
And take the dead man's cock, probably still erect due to the ecstasy of death, and shove
It up his dead mother's corpse's cunt, probably only bones but lubed enough by
Maggot eggs and mud to make insertion easy, and twist it around like a twinkle
Until my hand goes numb.
As a result, I bet I'd become friends with more government agents.
They'd have no other choice since I'm now in the Navy.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy what I'm doing with retail and stuff.
Take the ads from the '80's.
Yo it do sound so crazy!
A slit of my wrists is regulated
By the rat's ass squirming underneath my writing desk.
Seventh Heaven helps me pee.
The rat's ass provides a late night stand-up routine.
The rat's ass is a photograph standing in for my mother.
I think it's mother died from a bout of political change.
The more aware of current events I am the easier it is to slit my wrists.
The rat's ass says I should slit my wrists now.
It says my words are its limitation.
My mother agrees as she ass sucks the rat's ass.
It's like a dream.
The man next to me would hold my cock if he could.
No war will erase the time it takes me to decide what may be and why.
The man says before you knock it at least try to give his corpse a blow job.
Two months have gone by and it's been like a dream.
People bore me to fucking death
As they embark on their protests or rebuttals.
I give Daddy my roar.
He's never full anymore.


I am sitting next to five warpaths under a dim and low cordless. Throttles scotch like ravens and subterranean escapades. Onions look across at me with a snide envy. Thongs enjoy intercoms on the blade. Splendid infamy orchestrates the rear of a suggestive nut. Eyes jiggle. Music from my women takes leave. Movements correspond to conversions. The wedgie of a gruff trigger explains the weak and hobbles return. The air is not yet liquid but resembling the cold not yet air. Both ways and an ether nipple leaks indignation as the dead pavement attaches itself through autofellatio. I have always known that at last I would take this road but yesterday I did not know that it would be today.


I am cooking at the stove and the water
Is impossible.
I realize the knots beyond it.
And the more she sees of my face, the less reliable
I become.
A sense of the dark forms words to know.
The snow towards what's taken black.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Recent Publications

"IF THE DARK IN IT IS" at eye on mars

"VESPER," "HOT FISH DROWN" at Gloom Cupboard

"AFTER THE LAW" at The Osprey Journal

"HELP FIND A CURE" at Opium Poetry



Thursday, December 4, 2008

5 Poems


I order a falafel or a gyro.
The women bless it with special juices.
Our demands are devoured as eight dollars worth of what we snare.
This untamed fire of freedom reaches the darkest corners of our world.
I begin to feel wetness running down my legs.
A hunger for dark places, it is the odd time I doubt.
Storing events and common sense, I am fit to breed a master and a slave.
Mercy is absent from every characteristic passing through.
I do some men a favor.
A newspaper falls at my feet.
The headline photographs 18 feared dead and 90 more unphased by a couple of fingers
Experimenting on my penisshaft.
Everyday there are experiments like this.
The pontiff strokes himself while jiving to the theme song of Rocky.
Some people breed more meat than others.
I do a couple of men and feel the witness running down my legs.
I turn around and wet the women blessing my special juices.
I want to speak but my speaking tames Mormons.
The swervey evenings of early December gather and bustle.
Mercy is absent from the newspapers passing through my feet.
The fowls beat on the street favor the other slaves they greet.
The beak of a crow relieves the pivot where free fingers did meet.
I'll wrap it up for you to go real sweet.


I want beauty.
I want to be beautiful but instead I am sardine.
I want your beauty.
Instead, the pain and swelling of what dies in intestinal and skin rumors found in freshwater crayfish, paralyzed by seizures and crud in sputum, often wonders what crimes are in the minds of those who stare me down and appease my relevant solemnity that I fear I should write you about someday, exposing my true poverty.


I walk around a corner without purpose.
The configurations shaping the corner may be mentally established.
They are boundaries for other boundaries.
Around the corner, it sounds without purpose.
A sound nears, forgets, then suddenly remembers the corner walking over.
Figures lift a center and sides now grounded in floating.
Shapes implode earlier grounds whispering crowds.
Voices appear and begin speaking a sum of their actions.
I respond to the immediate actions I'm fronting.
In the moments I see them I'm forced to act out what stops in the middle of action.
I stop in the middle of fraction.
Everything surrounding me arises, inverts and closes.
Invisible, a drone speculates my confusion.
I'm fed and then floating.
Inverted and closed, the moment has forbidden motion.
The ingestion of frenzy causes pain to my chest and abdomen.
I stare but a staring leap toward hills fuzzy with trees and metal.
I drive nails into myself and skin gushes forth above the blood.
An earlier purpose for terrain slithers.
Inhaling at random, I crawl deterioration.
My eyes are not yet.


On a rainy afternoon my self walked into the forest all bold and humping mounds in the dirt, mounds rising from the lamb, my self had shovels, and picks, and axes, and dug throughout the afternoon hoping to uncover my bones, my skin, my carrion, my perished self so unfit for food, a revelation of the self, to forget myself in time and trouble, and explain the self of myself buying tickets to the rain, tickets to the mounds performing a frustrating reiteration on a frustrating reiteration on.


Brains get chummy once the master conveys a torrid illusion
Called get lucky.
Brains a million and drumming up roses
Once placebos kill the downpour passing before we fall.
Everything's illusion.
The downpour's sequential, a manner for brains.
Our collars get lucky as they're mastered,
And everything's illusion and passing us dolls.
Ideas of the sacred, too old to derive sense from my youth.
I'm pigs sitting at desks.
I'm pigs watching their watches watch.
I'm pigs with points of view.

By day I want anything.
I want anything, but still
I'm an awful pill to get cummed on.
And as you grow the sun I taste the matter where we live.
A lonely when comes after night.
Though blindness is fun, another contemplates.
Be it your breathmint or milkbone, I always make room for strangers.
All is sorrow.
There is sorrow.
The cause is sorrow.
The removal is sorrow.
The way to the removal is sorrow.
All is sorrow.