puddle mop my own

Agree to dispense with the pretense-a shaky stance stilted above swirling black of unknowing exactly, what terror befall the clumsy and netless. Sun shone too bright, enough to be reproached-approaching terminal fallout spilled sidewalks, enough to prove you’re no pussy, especially to your boss, that closet cock sucker so unhappy he can only rail his spray-tan girl from inside the paper bag he forces the whole room to wear during group sessions running the bill up to the hundreds per minute including the concessions of course, what’s a good, scientifically monitored orgy without a few dime a dozen hot dogs to set the mood, strange, no mustard, only mayo for these linking over celibacy celebrations broadening the gape to include the sacred egg-based life we deny, claiming sprems our through thorough truth but though again favoring youth to wisdom–a mistake not quite as old as time but rewritten for sundials nearing midnight, the crux of existence is soon to come between the absurdist grin and the popping vein atop the existentialist’s brow before she commands an unhealthy holy hell fire shit she mistakes for afterbirth and even names it but before the emotional impact of such a folly sets in, the bruises rise up declaring the unions of platelets’ catastrophic wholly unheroic soon forgotten fraternal suicide stopping the sweeping release of the middle classroom from their desks, all conveniently stacked, to withstand a separate but equal terror threat–each given secretly, though a few selected for collaborative action, an entire weeks worth of knees to wobble, shake or even knock as their parents’ permission slips state stay either unfilled or lost beyond human reach in the crevices of the nearest backpack stitched together with that common cord whispering on flappy wretched tongues behind shoelaces tightened, creative control

melange à trois

partner flicker distance growing
park here, side street knowing
confession lies, flowers unblooming
congress contorting, confronting denial
saddle sadness knowing fragrance undoing
sidle excerpts continuing, haunted mind
escapist route flaunting hidden timing
embargoed routine, ease the mind
flutter whispers adherent to despise
found what lies behind thick demise
outer door swing wide then, and subsidies
offered paradise only to be denied

burl curl bark

down trod the depths, felled close enough to scrape the nose, too snatched by the breath of leaves gone sideways, underbellies up ribcages sewn together, cells knit round the edge of form fit, fatigued adherence the standards fluttering in the winds before carried off by insects in legion, carrion on six legs, to the glades, to drown in the river stirring up clouds locked beneath the tensions above, pressured into settlement deny the drifting tendencies however tenacious and rambunctious, ravenous glinting struck from the shade, crossing a threshold overlapped, meant to ever become another, however small or simple.

over due

word clouds begin repetition
communicative data spread
like lice, lichen lick
earthen stones, trampled cobble
hobble where the horses once sat
topple the whores now grown fat
cry, cry, and fly to the panhandle
visit the soon dead
recompense a bitch
bury me in the ditch
wont make trouble
the dogs will find me
or angry slumlord fine me
no sympathy
drawn blinds
manicured messes
marginal defenses
nothing left but pretenses
ashtrays piled high
gray dusted smear
comfortabl cover
over stolen furniture
glass table top
bad blow and gut rot
the reality believable
beguiling and clear

wage slave

Paid today in part
in pieces chipped, still short.
Shift for a shifty,
worth more than it ought be.
Shit on the clock one relief.
Frescoes streak, sweat, and steam,
words bleed ink hearts staining sleeves.
Time away is breath unknown,
uncounted, untethered, worthless.
Hunker, bunkhouse drunks,
beware the scum sucking louse.
Don’t be crass, spend a look,
hooks caught, barbs inside,
signed off by the book.
While found words dissuade,
a vice provides elusive truth,
an unhooked noose, a loose truce
until something frays
pray it may be soon.

gods of trash

Would you rather be
ground or the seed?
Sage advice.
Spice bought the safe way
brokered through the slave trader
instituted by our savior who
occupiers and wage workers
sing the praises stern.
Cracking knuckles dusted
with the gilded charms
that grew our arms and dropped them
where there once were trees.
Now children cry and men deny
the poor forever worthless.
Ground to blood
the ancient ways
of tools we kept
long before we bore inept.
And slept away the birthing pains
of an endless swirling lust.
Lost their luster at the touch
the seeds often hunger
and wonder at the world above
while ground clutches
and cries no more
of a future it once saw in the grass.
The beak of a bird
in murderous flight
snatch up its filthy treat
apostate to its crime.

wet grass crab smell

cherry picking uncle fucker,
ulcer cow drippy tit,
cowl credible edible delight,
despite the night out,
insider bushwick fantasm screech,
throttle dangerous choke repeat,
savage strains stumble stairwell,
fumble tumble topside wet,
inheritance fraught beckon away,
plaster cast master class,
fateful envy monumental fascination,
fixate refrigerate lapping substance,
way finds you when,
backhand restoration corroborate decimate,
organize style wisdom none,
layman learns unheard terms



currents incur

she spun in a trance. slow and deliberate,
feeling where her body ended and the atmosphere began,
between feeling and the potential to.
the birth and death of everything in the arbitrary lines.
she felt those lines,
those crooked cursive scratches on the bathroom walls of time.
electric current coursing through the synapses,
the hot sticky air,
the torrents of breath,
the ensemble tale,
awash with the mist of evaporate both of sweat and drink.
the way she moved had once been described as apocryphal.
her heavy steps, looming and cataclysmic,
with a weight unlike anything physical,
like something wholly extra-biblical.
the intensity, birthed by deliberation,
hung heavier than any odorous perfume.
the intent, salvaged from desperation,
spoke louder than any occupied patron.

olly olly oxen free, never meant a thing to me

I used to steal bikes when I was young. Ride circles around kids as they stood alone, pooling tears on their dirty shirts, reeling back every time I sparked my brother’s lighter before riding away on their tricycles.
I’m not going to tell you why.

In middle school, I told every boy I was gay to learn how to fight. Smirking, sucking blood from my missing tooth, faculty on my side, untouchable. The stench of white trash flooded behind the dumpsters, drenching me in their fathers’ unearned respect. Sharing stolen matches. Indian giving cowboy killers.

Crooked teeth in wire cages split skin, the only noise that cruel vacuum gasp when fist recoils from chest. Accordions on silent strings. Whisping torrents of breath flutter ghostly, haunting hollowed bodies. Each strike rattling a dull droning buzz up my bones. A toothless, horridly tuneless fork.

No father abate me. Only a mother to hold, and scold herself for the martyr and his acolytes she made take his place. Straining back the lawnmower cord, between the rattles and the clicks I learn her favorite word. From her favorite bottle, I pour a drink. She pours another, unfolding her every wilting detail until all her drops run dry.

I meet the girl I wish to abandon with my child one day between bells and an attendance sheet marked absent. She kisses me, blushlessly, hand on my zipper, feeling me twitch, smile wide as time. She said it was on a dare. She is a bad liar. A dial lock jut into my spine, the combination known, but not by me.

Cold spring lawn shops close under the dark spitting clouds. We steal then smash mirrors in the streets. Behind a shed not far from our destination, we find a new one.  Exposed foundation and cracked checkered tile makes an odd rendition of a glass house. We settled in together, soaking through our threads and slicking our skins.

Silver staring back at me, as raindrops fell, and made bubbles when dipped beneath the surface. The water bubbled, condensed, and dripped, pooling beneath the spiderweb cracks chiseled into the porcelain pot. Our once-sopping mops stiffened by the breeze. Irregular and dark, encrusted as sculpted stone busts.

She smiled at me then, eyes alight in that golden hour somewhere between memory and falsehood. Embellishments ripple static in their wake, crossing what is known, and becoming, rather, something understood. Experience, the inadequate brother of Parable, built his bones on half-lies masquerading as half-truths.

We squatted there in that tub, tangled up in that tepid basin. Ripples mocked our beating chests. The tops of our knees quaked above the liquid mirror, frightened to touch while numb to all feeling. Open only to the exuberance carried by the frigid winds we could not see and the bottomless potential behind our eyes that we could.

I have one hundred-ninety two years of bad luck left to live. Thirty-seven and a half mirrors until I claim my jubilee. Impossible now to look back. Hindsight shattered, shards embedded deeper than probing introspection aided by the oil brewing poisonous in my liver cares to dig free.