Tag: 19656
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I look into your eyes.
I look into your eyes and I feel lonely. I see you seeing me, so on and so forth. I can’t escape myself. But, regardless, you are here. Maybe a distraction, but a sexy one. In your eyes I see the methods of my pain. I feel you slicing my thighs and torso and throat…
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Ideating
Across the yard, falling-apart fenceHitting, falling, torn down by the storm.Across the yard, a deflated ball,Seeping in the mud for weeks. Rain from above,And trees behind,And ants no smaller than specks of rice,And moss that grows on old-men trees. And Mud, Air, Grass, and a Nose,Holes, like Pores in a face,And Smoke, the Moon, tiny…
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meateater…
Prelude Sprinkler water, catching sunlight, Staining a flat driveway. Earthy clouds drift overhead, Potential-stuffed, futures a’thousand. And on the ground, and on his back, A melon-boy looks at the sky. Clothes are wet, but he is young, His mother still puts up with him. The smell of grass, the overcast, All of it feels so…
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19656 in print…
Zines have been released.
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Forested Cranial
Ashes in a homey mug, breaking up in dots of water, Or wet clothes, strung out to dry in the early hours of night. Muddy shoes on a radiator, and jeans splayed out across the floor, An empty suitcase tucked beneath a bed, And night-time silence, barring the box fan. The world is still, Except…
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Militiamen
And, when it was time to continue our march inland, it was October. On the eighth day, I arrived in an empty parking lot, emerging from the line of trees into the sterile, pearly night-time light beamed down from the overheads, still powered-up, along the southern border of the sprawl. We were fewer, then, standing…
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GRAIN STORY CHAPTER ONE
Think of me, for now, as an investigator. It’s been a while since I’ve written in earnest, but I doubt you care. I will tell my story here, trying as hard as I can to exclude unimportant bits, and including the scandalous ones for your reading pleasure or disgust. This might not be a perfect…
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starved
Why does the sun hide underneath the moon? Behind horizons, an indirect light. Ambiguous twinklings will be here soon, Dangling from gold orbs by string of kite. The sky is cloudy, cloudy yet not gray Behind a scowl climbs my blinded bawl. The dusted earth seems fainter each rot-day And still I saunter through the…
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tyranny
A sentence written is a sentence haunted. To write: to slice as deep as a page’s bones, to stain its fibers with that spider-eyed black, to brand its hide with the sharp searing of a thin, hot iron. A writer is a semantic sadist, gleefully preparing the tied-and-bound letters on his page for their nigh-inevitable…
