Thursday, December 31, 2009


My renunciations
Are as dim sum as a birth scene

A smokeless deer-headed infantry
Cradles me like the newborn
Ultramarine ground


Snail on a
Without a maker
In the corner of abandoned greatness

One day I'll stick
To the sequence of the jellyfish
Commanding from long beards

A centipede
Whether it's called a centipede
Or heaven
Prior to the final rebirth


Through the streets
The swallower of lifeforms inclines toward 
Animals corralled for slaughter

Horrific umbrella of four snakes burning

The flowering tree 

Like mixed circles rendered some persistent spoon

The flowering tree follows its convention

Condemned to the cycle of space and color

A lifeform then swallower

Tuesday, December 29, 2009



And a lot of cute girls love that premature baby
Looking fabulous as it hand glides.
And a lot of cute guys love that gallbladder
Squashing along like a hot pink premiere
With a gazillion pantsuits fashioned from surgical lights.
And soundscapes of elephant
Litter the soy sauce strangeness
Of a romance between conjoined twins
After they've sawed each other apart to death; to
Shanghai, my father looks for a peculiar strain of cilantro, then
Spends his deep strangeness inside an outdoor cage
Digesting me.


Feels like a neverending year where my woman 
Wants to increase the many moments that
A writer could write while staying the same person
Even if everything that nourishes deep down
Is actually some dying urge 
Looming above
Should I be able to repeat
Our real fruit flavor
With a mouthwatering aroma
Fast absorbing
Dangerous levels of spatula
Over steady backbeats


I euthanize the live ones.
I call them an angry force or the shitty.
After hours in a fishbowl
More consumers cite parasitic worms
Than all other media combined.
I'm just going to keep my head down to avoid
Seeing the whale carcasses decomposing in the chow hall.
It's hard to prevent my drunken driving from sucking one of them.

This central midmorning of thick crowds
Gropes and stalks those religious people
Like they're the bloodiest and certainly
The most anatomical martyrs
Since Sam Walton and George Dayton.
An avalanche refloats
Well out to sea.
I concentrate on the boiling rovers.

Monday, December 28, 2009


I reorder anal sex in the middle of an oil platform.
I'll status soon a cigarette's unit of time.
Cardholders rot like mountains of frozen yogurt and
The next night confirm more time
For contacts and consolatory calendars to 
Preview as full slide-out
Legs climbing the walls of an airplane on fire.
Basically, I have a nosebleed that stops my eyes
From marking their return trail.

Bed of sweet pain jumpstarts my new anal angel.
With the flag that covers our son's coffin
We preorder a favorite wine
And disappear into julienned kneejerks.
When it's showtime some soldiers are still going to call
Her a bitch no matter if she snowshoes over 
An oil platform in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico
Or wonders what it's like to rosebud then fuzz away
Toward the mountain winter right next to mine.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

4 Collages





Monday, December 21, 2009


The bars close down around me forever.
The virgin wraps herself in riptides
From the heart of the sea.
The land casts itself into the deepest void
Of dragon and of devil.
The bones of sheep bludgeon the streets
Like cemeteries of rain.
The saint with his hands
Breaks me into a thousand pieces.
A stream of fire on his head
Instead of hair.
I pity my children, I pity
The lewdness of the grain, the
Wine and the boil.
The saint burns the fields
Which my lovers have given me,
And anoints himself with my waste.
I mean, he's just all about the butt
These days.


Faithless cities compound the tents of those
Who once tended cattle.
Dagger in my hand and I'm imagining a swift stab
Through my heart
And saying yes to eternity in the demon's den.
Split whips strewn across the plundered fields.
Raw-food convenes despite the climate change heat.
Reluctantly, I go home
And meet him in one of his pretty little dresses.
He is posing for the neighbors
Who obviously enjoy it.
I try running away but trip on a bulge in XXXL overalls.
Side by side underneath the steamy moon
Cattle diligently masturbate then rest before their flight.

Friday, December 18, 2009


Sayu Tera's got 3 Poems @ No Teeth

RC Miller fronts
a few poems @ the infamously anti-fascist Calliope Nerve

and another here

Monday, December 14, 2009

Sunday, December 6, 2009


Sitting at my desk
It looks alluringly androgynous.
That pine tree less than two feet away
Resembles a mechanical doll sporting a garish ballet dress
Ready for the sailboat, ready for the finger hole. 

Assembled drones fill midday with
Marijuana and had sex, wee-hours and lunch on a uniform.
From one trash can to the other trash can,
I scurry like
Molars extracted out of the maple.

Praise be the host, praise be
The snow pimping down on tow-truck town.
Fatherless reaper paces up and down
My deck.
Black girls heal the brokenhearted.

This weird decade is ending, now is the time
To thin instantly.
Foreclosure. Paid programming. No back pain-
This microcosm is it, so why bother
Proving yourself with a straight razor.

Some bullets go past somebody's flesh.
Beasts and cattle and creeping things and flying birds
Stare blankly in recovery and awe.
Two aliens invade the same planet. 
They take me to the bay, put me on a blip.

The meat and wine has such cold insides.
I don't think much of immortals or pity.
The houses at night swallow a yellow beak
Just barely rubbing, then plunging all the way,
Like, hard.

Saturday, December 5, 2009


Only God knows the unbelievable
Bars, defiant forms, and boutiques.
Only God
Lets us hydroplane down the highway
Distraught and unique.
OK, so we're both expanded by the ebb of some fable.
Rivers and vegetables and our non-word surprises
Like a television series' important turnaround.
You nail me to the wall, the viewers arrive in droves.
It's then the germs thrive
And there's ample appetite for rat.
Given the amount of change about to happen, the
Clergy doesn't take their cue and doesn't have a pan.
You nail yourself to the wall, we're talking 
Technologies that won't be going away.
A mass email message obliges:
Always attach bait before setting the snare.
OK, so rivers are televisions programmed to provide
A short order spook or a stupor.
Like vegetables implying the form of a rat, only within
Coffins may one appetize the trim enough
To go into the ground beef.
It's then I finally permit misunderstanding
And wander about for lack of food.

Friday, December 4, 2009


I've configured a cot over your fire, and
I'm getting close to its memory.
From green grass to brown,
We kiss like
Top hats instead of heads, like
Grammy nods instead of meds.
If sock puppets without eyes can see us in a mirror,
We're perfect.

Thursday, December 3, 2009


Cyanide clad,
I drive-by

My penis is starved of oxygen and must be amputated
I'm welcomed to summit puddle a land high

In the Himalaya soured over an increasingly belligerent
Dispute about patches of border that premiere
A Tibetan slideshow of
Some Paralysis Set For Thursday Night

My penis launches the new-age hippie vibe now available as mixed berry, peach mandarin, and green tea; mineral spas with hints of orange possum entombment in a private mausoleum in Glendale CA

Violence or pure fun RINGS A STIRRING ST. AB

Emboldened by '08 in a land high in the Himalayas to soil W McKINLEY Jr.
Conservative parents' land THERE OR BACK up the president's cunt
trying to indoctrinate his children with socialist ideas

And shit it
Turns this stub on
When the preservatives take charge in bed

Monsters blush
Out of moving sinkholes to MEAT one giant aneurysm

Humping the neighbor yet all I do is complain
A West Virginia event events my
Clotting like fast smartphones snap odysseys of vaccine addicts defiled by worshipping Saturn's MILF
Fiction widening neutrality between economists and have-bots


won't exist, and piss stalls look brighter
in Washington and reckless risk-taking on Wall Street but also of faulty theorizing in academic
hexagonal inner-city club dancers wanting to break into hip-hop videos and
about to violate a made-to-order sundae or a
vaporized Monica Almeida make believing that The New York Times is a Burial Home after the election of


don't be mad
don't be man
only a brain could cook me the play way
there be a smell like no other
Annie Le the 24-year-old who was last seen I assume

an endorphin

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Gland mysteries @ > kill author published 3 Poems

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


Crow from a scare
Gravy gravy gravy

Laughter changes into demon

I waste my date
Fisting left and right
I wonder sometimes

So what if the silkworm
Slowly sucks
A stone not born to die

We all have to go that way
And combine