Volume

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

disjointed

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

Last Night

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

Travel Days

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

Convenience

there’s a bar with a stool for me that I can’t get to easily. I must overcome too many adversities: all my knuckles hurt, ache really, and my back is stabbing me and twisting the knife, plus I found a lump near my spine; I hope it’s a spider bite, further, my neck won’t straighten … Read moreConvenience

Jacking Off

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

Turpentine Blue

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

Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind