Tagged: dark

The man in the Ghost.


The leaves billowed from the heavens, a roasted brown or Sunkist yellow. Mixed into the mess is the liter of the ages; a pattern, a rhythm, a song of color against dismal grey concrete. I pass the man with the tenderized face, jeans with holes and a twisted limp. But he smiles, teeth like termites. And though he smiles, later he won’t. And though he greets me with a kind face now, later he won’t. We know this, we know the binary of the demons and the angels. It remains unacknowledged, but the distance is respected.


Killing For Revelation


There are holes in the Ziploc bag.

Snow coated.

Breaks in the lines,

Sparking electrical wires

Melting alpine peaks

And itchy noses

Cut with methamphetamine

And the surgeon’s

Favorite razor.

The poets are scratching,

Shitting poetry

Bearing teeth

And grinding needles

In mildew corners

“Shit stings brother”

In that lavender pink

Codeine sky

The sweet thick stink

And an oasis of empties

Christ on the cross faded nausea

The Greatest.


Flatulent rump
Hanging on a cross

Like Christ himself,

They do something different

In the second coming



For a more


Means of con(power)trol
From under the bridge

With a child’s head and hands

But all of the walls

And the molestation through time

Won’t make him a bigger man



Fish eyed

stoic reflections.

A little wired

Little crazy.

Wilted ass flower,

Chatted furs

manage to misunderstand.

They drugged Jesus,

The Son

Nauseous with nothing to nibble,



Far from original sin

Smoking on senile hand rolled slugs

Racing past 

Settling insectile faces

Behind sterile windshield

I need these antithetics

To get through the day


The list travels through L.A.

And Tokyo

Coilng around the world

Knotted ball of twine

Each thread the next scroll

Of my prescription

Of prick the fingers,

Make him bleed,



They whisper it,

Hiding behind sweaty palms

As I stumble to the curb




the roach that go away


The sky is stained with exhaust

The strip with buds


In my land

Two layers closer to hell.

The Bureau of Emasculation


play off reflection, I caught you staring in the mirror,
playing through a bit of high,
but I work hard enough,

it won’t be a problem

always starting at the same time,

always starting too late
the grip feels good in my hand
the rubber against stiff fingers
we wouldn’t want the Callous
they’ve hollowed out the underside
to take away feeling
stuffed with sawdust and formaldehyde
I never could be full enough
good enough for you
sew it shut
sand down the veins
and pare mushroom tip

it wasn’t so long ago
foreskin charms
phallus necklace
earrings always

It’s Only Natural


a stone does not mean to be cruel
contained in arrogance
it just is

nations perpetually christened
in genocide
but they must be

domineering husbands
and the bartender
has a fat lip
but she has to

sacrifice the women,
the children
for the survival
of the white man.

the oligarchy has finished eating
kind enough
to feed us the crust
embezzled with the phlegm
of each of their celestial

multi colored
multi variables
some reek of mustard gas
some are only stale,
with cyanide following,

others biZzare shades and huEs
anti freeze: bright blue
but finally another knot in my stomach
and the sweet taste in my mouth.

New York Revelry


The sun reflects from their tinted window
burning the passing children
playing in New York street
purchased from the vendor
for a foot job behind Denny’s

we hum in the jazz bands
just downtown
gospel for the people
every Sunday morning

we’ve been advised,
strap down the audience
tickle their ear lobes
with the sharp part of mother’s favorite spork.

I had almost forgotten
the septic taste of ignorance
the self assurance of bigotry
we’re all a twinge sick
the apelike growth
in the furrowed brow
plucking away excess.

How many of us have
been caught straying
to where we don’t belong?

Sedimentary Chest Cavity


weeds, onion shoots
growing from the side
of abandoned dirt roads
careless carbon, without consciousness

not content nor contempt,
just being
energy in the atmosphere

always we press on
with the force, their breath
moving us through

the yoke splattered on my shirt
subtle reminders
that the soil and my soul
aren’t so damned different

and acidic pieces of death
in the air
passing through
keeps me moving
keeps me alive

the potholes 
keep me awake
on my long drive through Hell.