Poetry

When your eyes burn with visions of Santa Anaand Brazil is laying itself upon all you touch,when every mystery has the same answerand the sun won’t set without a saint’s song,when all the words have run togetherto make only one last sentence,the flood of love will leave nothing behind,the currents of life will deposit everything.There … Read moreWhen your eyes burn with visions of Santa Ana

sometimes I have to yell; it comes out like vomit – this poison that sits so deeply made from too many years of ill conceived waste disposal programs. sometimes I need to scream; the currents of the continents smashing together in an ageless dance pushing rage out into the sky, into the ears. sometimes I … Read moreVolume

I have opened every box, every bottle;looked under furniture, laundry, dirty dishes,but no where can I find oblivion.Maybe it’s me, my own blindnessthat I think I can see and hence the confusion. Sometimes I want to extinguishmy own existence in this sphere;watch the blaze of insecurities andmake ashes from my lifetimes in doubt. Fists in … Read moredisjointed

My butterflies are biting me and I’m still writing letters to the world but I’ve run out of bottles –    they don’t seem to come to the island anymore – and no matter how strongly worded I’m still just lonely and still just lonely and still, I’m just lonely dreaming of soft arms and dark … Read moreLast Night

traveling; south then west over to the crater that was once a crescent moon for a party at the ends of the earth: I think of Morocco and Burroughs and the wasted deserts of West Texas. I hop into demons and scorch the sky; on whims as flimsy as balsa wood planes and the bella … Read moreTravel Days

Baby can I come home with you? Yeah, I’m not the first to ask; but there’s a thing you got – please don’t ask just what it is, it ain’t part of my five senses but every other man in here just don’t know what you got: oh, they feel it, but they don’t know … Read moreTo Hell With Everything Good

My penis has a sore from getting caught on my zipper during an extended session in hermetic love of binary objections on video displays flickering a dying light. I see music in the faces that ring out of my cog driven, enslavement of idle key strokes. An urban filter sun that starts out on a … Read moreJacking Off

its turpentine blue, sometimes, the way it smells out here in the low lands of politics and disease where the teeth are worse than sharks and a brother might never get the boot off his neck to breathe, and I’m left wondering if the Gulag had a place for a person with strange elections of … Read moreTurpentine Blue

it’s not dark. it’s not cold. it would be easier if it were dark and cold to feel this sullen despair at the very manifestation of the world; all of it filled with mother fuckers and trees that look better on fire. (Rage up when you feel small and step on some part of someone … Read moreThe Weather Outside