Saturday, February 28, 2009

Recent Publications

"FAMILY PLAN" @ Thieves Jargon


5 Poems @ The Recusant 



My stomach's sure a wreck these days.
I can hardly digest any substances.
Maybe it's nerves, maybe it's the answer, or maybe
I'm half God cancer.
Wandering in bramble, petrified as shit to stop reading looks, I
Concentrate instead on working life twice.
Sea turtles I meet off the coast of Kauai freshen their essence
Despite my novelty.
My suit's here to pleasure the tail I waste.
New measurements of the individual are freed to chase.
And come morning, eyes will petrify and glitter.
Steamed cauliflower for dinner, cremated tastes whither.

Friday, February 27, 2009

5 Poems


This is an uncanny blue.
The river usually knows which mules to let pass, and which
Ones deserve drowning.
Standing on the shore, a man spares the plastic bag
He snuggles.
Pages burn so that I might learn
His new way of farming.
Every survivor absorbs a gland and mist.
Without some fantasy to grovel, I walk off doing reps, so
Precious to be alive.
Vultures circle this ditty, snacking on human follicle.
A slight refraction makes my world seem tolerable.
I pity the river, perhaps I'm filthy.


It's what I'm doing for money.
My whole day rotates around the time
I get somewhere.
And one can deflate and dry, but I won't deny 
Florida at Christmastime is relaxing and clean.
Horseshoe crabs in the sun they don't sting.
Strippers and salad bars, a convenience 
Not to miss.
Pitchers of $5 beer, baby it's bliss
Posturing what's wicked to come.
I suggest we close up the kennel and let the bogs run.
Pitchers of $5 beer, baby it's piss.
First hunger of the New Year and I've not got a dime.
Time constricts our kisses with money.


I cannot fully give myself to health tonight.
We haven't fucked in over a month.
Sex must become an option again if our future is bright.
Even when I masturbate, my semen shots are
Bat tar.
A castle on top of a mountain guards the rebel town.
I'm an actor in a theater of coma-like tactics.
Let's start a family and live life right.
Thrust me if you must, I miss dirtying
Soft things.
Watch, as I'm grooming fakes I dream them.


Fire ants cover an orange for the first time in their life, spitting
Out the occasional bruises they eat.
Otherwise, matter remains unchanged.
I get-off on the transvestite's hiss.
A sun of machetes, compact
And risked.


Almost impossible to have a squirt.
My cut's on the beach, my disbelief a brand-name.
Burrito then enchilada, eight beers later I'm a stingray
I want to blow.
The next wave of graves arrives sooner than I finish.
For them there's plenty of mothers blessed, and plenty
More weep after drinking.
All of us hear the speeches coming from the monitors.
Many aircrashes are proving survivable.
Lunatic oceans for centuries, I part the surf
That bites.
It's horrifying and living.
Every drip dangles war.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

2 Poems


Last summer, it stashes our gloomy autumn.
The rooster busts
Bricks of plum wine.
A sea goo pawns the willow bank.

And flowers melon while their lasers
Climb white branches of blob.
This pasture's full of moons, it brightens a little
Like spittle.

A feathered gargoyle scorches
The tyranny of my combustible glaze.
I’m rabid in snow, in black fruit
I’m your gray chasm.

The snow on fruit reflects a bonfire.
In a little world we’ll be gone.


I've been here too long.
Every night, I think in terms of death
And its nocturnal anchor.
I take responsibility for the future once more.
The United States of America does not torture.
Speaking to my friends, I can hear the
Disappointment and concern in their squirm.
I walk five miles a day, sometimes ten.
I attempt to exhaust myself so that sleeping
Comes easy.
There's nothing to show from this life.
Look outside your window, at the hoods, at
The heads.
Water covers it all, my mind holds germs.
Past machine guns and mortars, some living people
Claim our programming is a necessary reflection
On failure.
This one's called the well.
The black's been here so long.
I owe it all to glue.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Ornery Love Was Learned

The only overnight treatment you can take during the mystery

Inserts an organic banana's twist first, I can't do without it

Sitting here licking my bones and running like flesh

I am laughing at all of you, I just want to be left the fuck alone

Because the body asks enough of itself,

I need to be honest with the day as it's born

Saturday, February 21, 2009



I took the road feeling sad.
I understood why you've kept me preserved.
I once saw him coming
To heal the sick with his shadow.
I paid an entrance fee.

I see it coming.
I see signs posting a theme,
Truth in a pure state
Thinking what is not pure.
I understand why you've kept your wood
Ready for another key
Of immobility reckoning.

Tangled signs enlist their theme.
Variations on air and fire.
Variations on teeth and eye sockets.
The faulty guts of crowds
Go hungry when the Lord's worth needs release.

I once saw it coming.
I saw monuments dedicated to the tension of bedroom stains.
I saw monuments dedicated to a peril now so out of fashion.
I thought in a pure state
But my thinking was not pure.
My actions are still of imaginary labels
Promising your animal fertility.

I take the road feeling sad,
Seeking mayhem
Advertising what frailty abounds.
I preserve mayhem at half-mast
And begin to heal the sick with tainted shadows.

2 Recent Publications


5 POEMS @ The Recusant 

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

5 Collage Pieces



Unbearably serene,
Their pools collect the absolute

In fortified gothic casinos
Lint free and buffed as desired

Unsettled as a vacuum,
My shrines are removed using long ropes

An exhausted tagline is hissing
From the inhibitor of sour lamps

Pigs everywhere, sterilizing scalpels,
Passing ironic gas and epitaphs

I depend upon them to blend my quiet detonation,
I pulverize
Tendrils of pulp toward ripe destinations

And the graves insert impacted antlers,
Shirtless and digging up for my nightmare
A vain butter flickering supreme vinegar 

Tuesday, February 17, 2009



Aboard the shipwreck,
We wear moist wings of bandit geese.
Blue shrapnel bones exit our dusty breath.
There is nothing here.
This is a candle.

Marinating the furnace,
We torture a widowed owl.
Wicker smiles sacrifice our agony for rust.
There is something here.
This is a rodeo.

Objects unwrap themselves
To navigate mammal shadows.
Mute gifts banish themselves
To swap thirst for melancholy sod.

A greedy urinal of holograms
Eats its wife raw.
And with wrinkles like a coffin lid,
My hands rinse a child's finite scalp.
My race
Swarms the unsung drought

Frozen in chunks of water
Flowing apart from the frozen chunks of river.



This Jesus toilet seat cover is the only thing that keeps
Me hanging on.
After the football descends, a dreadlocked peeper punishes
One buck beyond every twelve I scold.
His boss whistles a lonesome crisp and pickles
My blues away.
Plied platinum, the vistas pretend we're pregnant.
Actually, we'll venture nowhere at the end of our thread.
Hip daughters and sons are tripping and buttfucking in Old Navy
Like honeybees in an elementary school diorama.
The sight is like Rainman recalling those disfigured and turned
Into punts and punt yards.
I worked late today.
I'm drinking 3 black and tans the cops shot.
6 large sandwiches product place a diplomat bitterly entertaining the
Scutter of fisheries and commuter cultures.
What can I do but author this inward dud porking his anger and
Then beat off.
Fuck me, I'm clearly jealous of all poets writing today, so repeatable in their rehashed
Slang and tendencies for sappy state sponsored suicide notes.
Drew University rejects my manuscript, denying me entrance into their club.
My toilet seat replies the fact that they don't typically accept pornographers, and only an
Imbecile would waste 2 years and thousands of dollars to earn an MFA any sucker
In the next stall punching his BlackBerry while pinching a loaf could earn.
Don't fret, I'm about to take my codeine Gerald Stern.
Everything around me IS muthafucking burning!
My pocket pussy gets lots of attention from Garrison Keillor when he's downunder.
Watch me hole his thunder!
O mittens, O booze, nostalgia has overfaked me again.
Guess I'd better roll over and seek bulimia.
Guess I'm ready to go tourette's.
I marry my yeast and cast the stadium a smell of choice.
It transpires my blues, hinting at dirty dildos discussing Leibniz and how
The centrifuge 69's high.
I pluck pills from the Berkshire girls who only know me when I guzzle beer.
In the urban of masks I find comfort in their unitards.
They're impressed when I glide below my own illogical pretenses as a writer.
The days blaze clarity and frizzy butterflies.
Meat says goodbye to the relief of non-existence.
Moments pass and 
It's no fun and you are no fair and each of my identical sexes tong
Just another camera.

Hood 2

Friday, February 13, 2009

Poems Written While A Guest at the Home of Jessica and Martin Avery, Redfield, SD, 07/23/07


Darling my darling,
Your miracles lend us the absent sight of dealerships

Tenderly churning
A suburban blubber,

Our link to a rawhide pain
So done with my ills and now we'll go ahead

And fluff your feathers with a blow dryer,
Happily removing this breakfast weave.

I need no more pleasure
Seeking a place where we are of no resemblance.

O darling my darling,
I'm stoned as the hinterland enamel,

And roundly enamoring
Your greed to spend a lot of dough

When we medicate our perfect push-up bra
With the miracles sung and now I'll go ahead

And churn the absence lending us sight,
A well worn pain seeking pleasure

Fluffing resemblances
From the billions of blow dryers hung.


Stepping deeper I scalp a lake
Capping the drowned on my jitters.

We break together
A lamprey sonnet painted thin.

August was poor but martyrdom is still preferred
By most tribes of daze bumping dirt medicine.

I know when I rise from the me for dead,
You'll swim to drown this lake well bombed.

The ham we raise should assertively perish
A trait fooling musk in its everlasting fade.


Neighborly nymphos compute my habits
Shampooing them out of focus
Pictures of
The cynic fanfare sawing off twenty kneecaps
Turned on mysterious cream
Drenched in fever
And confined a property
That decorates the disciplined specimens
Reincarnated by choosing for the butcher's reduction
A weedy spool maven
Throwing gloss its pastoral species.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Poems Written While Visiting Gabriel Shaffer's Studio, Asheville, NC, 07/19/04


O my the speed is what happens
All in the name of our seat.
Plastic builds one thing,
To bash glass is another
Civilization thought doomed.
Eastern cables hook the Western lung.

A cigarette at every rest stop.
Little crickets and thoughts of doom.
Freed a king
But not a resource.
O dearest daughter,
O dearest rat,
Freshly these mountains boil.

At hand is our skull
At hand is our conch
At hand is our axe
At hand is our colony
The ancient weather
Of ancient thermal
Waits for another blank drag
Containing the weary
Distant infections
Sheltered and
Watching the boom
Summon a stapled glass sun
At hand is our coin
At hand is our lion
At hand is our arrow
At hand is our flute
Our mouths wide open
Our mouths tightly closed
In questions
A weeping
When the wick disintegrates
Cold nubs of pyramid mud
Regretting all third eyes on their prized cherry
At hand is the pheasant
At hand is the comb
At hand is the bead
At hand is the stove
Of scorned deposits
Howling a single platter
Playful yet brooding
In two birds
I'm watching
Two sane dots
Letting virtue pass


Pierced with profiles
And no palate of hormones to follow,
Hints of subterranean evacuation
Plead do not hold the door.

Juiced for justice,
Elitists and futon experts untie passionate leviathans.
My benefactor is erect.
My courage draws a kite.
Hark, here flares the pin trunk trinity.

I'm told where to rest my hearse in heaven.
A huge downtown
Was the supplier of your strawberry.
In spite of customs ready for the hurricane,
Gravity forgoes a mashed appendix.
I've got dollars to explain the everyday self-dismemberment plug.

The bitterness is uprooted
By plenty of hay carts to hurl on.
Since breakfast,
I am followed to where my nostrils grow obtuse.
They usher me into a closet and ride me
As she rides me all the way to frost.

My veins are erect.
It's a testament to things expelled.
An oppression of one's banal sediment.
I avenge why you always slap it upside the trashcan lid.
I avenge why you endow
The constant savage in the triggers fired.

Sock drawer
Mite windmill
Power-line prostitutes
Drip wind
Into my old pond
The spicy hawks steady
Their last meals and stay underground
Must a boundless fuel surprise even our corpse
No hoot arrives
Yearning for the not yet

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Poems Written While Staying at The Big Ten Inn, Iowa City, IA, 06/21/04


I am attached to your raven whore blackout.
I am your killer's vital sauce
Leftover from the mosquito's bloodless cup.
I am on the lookout for any stuffed sheep
Who graze a vengeful story.
Immortal is my buzzing stage.

I recite parables saluting spinal chord rockets
Launched above abundant fields of captured statues.
I bite frantic rabbit mothers squirting bobcat fathers.
I race cars twice as large as the cage
Converting plastic dolls.
Estranged are your maggots flocking.

To all the tiny antenna heathens 
Who fish my mystical abyss,
I await your aghast substance
Justified in the spoiled skins
Repelling pop-eyed executions.

I am a gang-bang survivor.
I am a lurid and lucky toe tag.
At the center of your scrambled trance,
I harvest a nuclear moan,
And punch square in the nose
Freezers of endangered genital pie.

I anticipate the patriotic apocalypse,
Organizing our crater slaves to rumble profoundly-
One-dollar razor!
One-dollar crazy glue!
One-dollar battery!


When clerics fork over the wizard tooth,
And nest slayers share infinite reruns 
Of victimized logs burning their entertainment fuel,
I see the mad glass fire
Paralyzed or running crooked,
Growing barbed wire fins to swim in trapped milk.

I see us
In rubber robot suits screaming
Arson death is the verdict in dragging death!
White death is to blame in avalanche death!

And over the ledge of splits without shame,
I see certified bibs 
Roasting the dynamic of resistance.
And above the cement braced by virgin honey,
I see a deluged nation
Tempting beverages to lease hospitable riots.
In ribs and wallets I see our measurements.
In sage and coral I smell our waste.

We are here to be lead astray.
We are there against time's bleary drain.
And dense are the premonitions 
Dumped near our swinging delay.
And dense is our night
Thinking of gambled and green eyelids.

O we are here to be lead astray.
We are targets blowing a legacy of loins.
And into a diamond ghost
I see you plunge your gorgeous stinger,
As I abuse the Lord's garlic
Forever reducing our original shatter.