Prison Projects

The visiting hours are over,lying in bed killing time(As if we could kill timewithout injuring eternity – Thoreau)Wondering about saintsand sausages (Moritz)and how having an archbishopin your family might belike having an American Envoyin your family,so that Basel 1,000 years agois Iraq today.A reasonable person would accept thisas proof evolution is not directedor deterministic.Or, one … Read moreécolier

Flying over a Million yearsof being sad, dying.The glowing lights below,the empty streets -where is my Jericho,whose walls have fallenlike whores’ pantiesaround ears and ankles?The doomed silence,raging with the child’spiercing cry,is not afraidto be silent for 10,000,000more breaths.And I, I am not either.

100 pounds of insanity,just enough brainsto flatter sexuality.Dreaming of those lips,pondering that ass.A million firemenpouring onto your flame -but the alleywayswill always be a reminder:September autumns,Georgian winters,never a Catholic christmas.Such savagery dragsthe bird into the cat’s lair.Delinquent Suffrage,let your voice be heard,through windowsup-out from toilets.Infections are your memoirs:my heart will always be sick.

i am ashamed. why didn’t they just murder you, like they did your young child? why didn’t they sell your 2 oldest to Afghan Warlords, as they do? your existence is a stain on us. i cry dry tears for your suffering so long in the despair of Nations. your broken body, deformed spirit wake … Read moreAafia Siddiqui.

The Poetry is gone.Left in a hurryafter getting dressed;Drank the last swig of wine,emptied my walletbefore slamming the door.It’s mourning again,the Sun’s accusations burning …The Poetry asked for it rough,begged to be hurt,said it wanted to feel alive.Now I feel guilty, ashamed -the wine and wallet are inadequate,my own death is inadequate.My poor, sweet poem:ravaged … Read moreRough Poetry

I stand at the bar trying to hold on through the waves     of visions: Letters to Muses, eons since last week. Whores that will not tell me the price … Insisting it was me     – the whore – demanding payment! We’ll never get anywhere if we can’t agree on Buyer & Seller.

Had I known The visions would plague My waking hours, I might have rejected Such flippant pleasures. Were I aware of the suffering, The blindness that comes from staring into the sun, I might have caught my train. But I was not, And now, I am able to see nothing – The blackness of ecstasy: … Read moreRuination Day

Shall it be said that we did what we could, limited only by what we would? Shall we not consider that we should, even if it means it would be good? and where does charity stop and genuine love begin? can we not continue to shop for love again? (and again and again and again)? … Read moremodality

I could never be what was needed, the peace negotiator was murdered in Belgrade, during the battle of trust against the savage Serbs. And without negotiators, there will never be peace. platitudes and flattery won a tenuous retreat so that my wounds could fester in love’s mad jungle. Reaching the edge, there is no satisfaction … Read moreI have not died

i’d forgotten how much she enjoyed being beaten; being cared for enough that energy would be expended. I’d forgotten what the expenditure of energy meant for her: a budget of love that could be deposited into her. I can appreciate that money won’t get into her pants, & I can really appreciate how slapping her … Read moreExpensive Whores