the Birthday Party

September came and went – Our sins were the clues that October had to follow. and the loves on the floor – great bodies, all of them – were too much for November, collapsing to its knees, Bloody Hands raised up to the gods of Time … “One More Time”, we said.

In The Garden

In the garden, war rages; strategy & tactics, the unkraut wear the enemies Uniform, while the ever neutral Sunflower grows where it likes. The Colorado beetles crumble between fingertips – The Convention on Humanity demands they die humane deaths else the potatoes suffer a similar fate at their hands. why would Colorado export such fiends? … Read moreIn The Garden

Trauma Poems

Dislocations: running over sharp stones, arm dangling from the elbow, flapping about like a scarf in the wind. it didn’t hurt, then. the way the voices pool, collecting in the soul – they didn’t hurt, then. oh, but had i killed one thousand men … i might have the courage to become one of them. … Read moreTrauma Poems

for Christopher

it’s fucked. no question about it. it’s sick, it’s twisted, it’s fucking insane! it’s gross – putrid and burns the nose! it is the world today. FINALLY! Fucking Finally! it is a glorious day! it is a day to rejoice not in the asshole biblical sense, but to really see the destruction as the clay … Read morefor Christopher

The Fly

“You know,” he thought to himself, “if you’re going to kill yourself, you should do it like Rachel Corrie.” He’d thought about her often. Not that she killed herself – the casual observer 10,000 miles away knew the IDF murdered her. Rather, her death had meant something. Her life means something. “She was,” he thought, … Read moreThe Fly

Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind