If only it were justice to ****
a mocking bird.

The fauna that derides one,
stares one down
and dominates
with the entirety of Nature behind it.

I'm stuck, my blood dripping
fresh from its feathers.

It leaves me empty with its cries;
lonely and one dies.
Absorbed, engorged,
elapsed, and relapsed.

Nothing works,
and nothing's clean;
everything's a nightmare,
and it used to be a dream.

Crawls like a ******* with insect legs,
wet cool tongue tickles like a slug
up the inner thighs to the inside of the crotch.

I'm indebted to the doctor who saved me
from nature's attempt to abort me with an umbilical cord -
I owe him a bullet in the brain.

My mother's love
was only there
in her tries to cover the guilt
for strangling me in the womb.

Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.

Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.

Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.

Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.

Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.

Fingers into ****,
pulling out the ******.

Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.

My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****.

A girl with soft teeth
grinding cavities

*******
in confession
with five weeks of absence

wrapped up
in confusion
with five hours of evidence

she's got a new kick
tomorrow, she says

tore up
in weeping
with five minutes of dissonance

It feels like Winter’s fingers
and they’re pulling me under
by the ankles
once again.

I struggle but it is
never enough,

I thaw out from my freeze but it is
never enough.

I spend thirty days in a blast furnace but it is
never enough.

Oh save me, Spring,
that I might live,

as no matter my struggle,
or how strong I am,
or how well I swim
or tread this slushed and frozen lake,
chunks of ice
bump against my exposed flesh
splitting it as I am pulled,
choking,
down and under that frozen pond
where I am drowned.

How that camera captured the unseen rays of crystal sunlight,
it is almost 1990
but our young bodies
are stuttering in grainy silence,
spinning film on a machine that wasn't even made back when
it was almost 1980.

Look at you,
taller, stronger
sister
towering from that diving board...stronger, taller, older -
but I was always bolder.

Boldness.
Bravery.
A glamorous fearlessness towards the dangers of life.

You were always jealous of that,
weren't you?

Notice the toes.
Yours are so very close to the edge, aren't they?
But look at mine.
They curl down at the joints, peering over the edge,
ready to fall
pull my smaller body after them into a deep blue oblivion,
like the one you've abandoned
me to now.

The last time I saw my son
he was smiling
waving his little eight year-old hand
in front of his scarecrow-gold hair
shoulder-length

The last time I saw my son
he was joyous
at simply another day of school
mom taking him in her car as I stood by
unemployed

The last time I saw my son
he was blissfully unaware
of simply another day of sorrow for us
and the unatainability of life
missing

But I smiled back and the window between us
hid my welling tears
as I stood by the car that pulled away

The last time I saw my son
I knew he'd come looking for me
but I wouldn't be here any longer
just words written and songs made
photos and pictures and comments online
a ghost of electricity
a haunting blast of brain and regret
whose last thought was
the last time I saw my son.

You just keep on carving back my smiles,
elastic vowels you blanket me in,
drowning me, again, with smoke from your belly.
Gargle all the chunky bits
that remain in this blended relationship.
Strain them out through the cheesecloth
which splits apart,
like the split between your legs

The split of an insect’s back when it
bends, arches, reaches too far.
And I’m sick of that bird-****-yellow
oozing out from that crack there;
held in your scarecrow arms.

I don’t want to be your headache
in this migraine *******.

Scaffolding in place by those that value
a structure arranged and supporting,
housing community.
Community from its root of ‘commune,’
what exists from the efforts
of all those involved.
A building housing
opinions,
creativity,
debate,
and art.

What was once a poetry free-for-all,
now a pay to play disaster
crumbling down
at the swinging of a dollar-shaped
wrecking ball.

How easy my thoughts are lost
in you and simpler still my body pulled
into you held down by the weight
of the earth I’ve filled my pockets
with. I push my way into this welcoming
water’s body. I do not want to go,
but the ocean’s thundering applause
and its frigid love under my toes
sweeps me off my feet
as waking gulls
mourn the triumph of the sea.

There is sunshine in your voice
as your tight wet mouth
is on my neck
and the tongue
is in my ear.
You lick your palm,
there’s a bit of blood
on my copy of ******,
and I’m coming.

I am only three thrusts away
enjoying the girl,
oh her little bones,
sweet somber hair
as my pants
become tighter.

I watch you brushing teeth,
foam on your lips,
as my crippled spider
legs sway forward on
towards your tender little ***
hole like a cherry,
hidden within the cleft of a peach,
sweet, then a flash of violence
towards your haunches, hips, shanks.

Older women are sweet like saccharine,
but you are pure cane,
****** peppermint
cinnamon disks,
which drip
the same as crushed
maraschino cherries.

More than lust,
more than ***,
more than *******,
is the peace they bring.

More than pillows,
more than clouds,
more than rest,
is the calm they bring.

Warmth against the ear and cheek, Mother's breath
runs through the hairs on the back of his neck
as Lover's fingers trace through his hair.

Soft, such skin.

The man becomes an infant at the touch
on ear of delicate areola,
an inverted dimple,
which he turns to with the lips and tongue,
moist.

We aren't on speaking terms
but
we **** nightly
that way
we don't have to see one another.

All day long we are:

coarse hair fly legs under each other's skin,
black drops of ink in a jade bowl of milk,
genocidal gestures.

There is a part of me that loves you
(despite all the harm we've conceived)
it slides in and out of you as I write this.

Your torso, stretched and squeezed by God's finger
and thumb, ever so gently
just between your hips and ribs.
Those long bow-shaped bones stretch against your near melanin-free skin.
Is that pink-tinge the blood vessels, just beneath,
or the marks of my touch?

I am heady;
you are ice on my tongue,
which slowly melts into warm
liquid as I mouth-
breathe.

You make me feel so *****-clean,
a pale patriarch that ***** his Sister.
I am so drunk
on your potency,
my memories flood in as absinthe, my inebriated
body replays that first night I tore you open.

Stretch your arms above your pretty poutish head,
I pull myself out from your bald lips -
coat you in white feathers.

Pink bodies glide by in an endless
sequence, one neck after another, opened
by the blade he grips. With a liquid-muted squeal,
and cacophonous struggle of the fore legs (the back two are bound
up), the swine pours its life out with just a little coaxing of the man's tool.

One, two, three...and more
drowning in the smell of ***** matter and gore.

White, brown, and black bodies
in an never-ending stream,
dangle by the hind legs, swinging
from the mass of them, roll by; the ankles
hold their weight. The man's knife is
never dull, it finds the sweet spot
where it slides between bone and tendon
and cartilage and into the vein,
thick and fleshy (a garden hose),
which pumps its contents onto the killing floor.

One, two, three...and more
near-boiling in the unrelenting heat of ******.

That knife, that blade, that tool
opening one faceless
animal after another.

Their names are blotted out in blood.
Their cries bubble out through red,
thick like mucous.

Knife in, knife out,
knife in, knife out

with dull repetition
and the precision
of a machine,
until they all look the same,
until he feels nothing for them,
until there is no difference between them and people,
until the sharp, stained instrument of steel
turns to the side
and into the man next to him.

There's a threaded zipper on your pants
made of little stitches of red
which grasp the zipper's brass teeth,
which match the enamel tools
which grow from my pink gums
which pull at that handle.

As it slides down, the teeth of brass
pull apart
(skin from a peach).

Little coquette,
I can see the smirk of giddy shame
as the denim drops
and you are bare.

There was a time when I was driving towards you,
highway lights passing by as if they were hyper-drive stars.

By blunders I somehow found your address on the scrap
of paper that I write this on now. It's still stamped with your lipstick,
scent of your armpits,
blood,
hair,
and the smell of your palms after they'd cradled my face
while I cried for you not to leave but just to make this daybreak
moment last an hour longer
to make that sun rise slower
drape your body over mine
one more time.

I swear I'll enter you if only you'd just give me one more chance.
I swear...

I was waving goodbye
but you never
saw. You never
even looked back.

There's a caterpillar in my right ear canal.
It's almost neon-green,
with poison-orange bulbs,
the color of grafted cactus.  

It's squeezed its way quite far in, stuffed
itself in as if it were an expanding foam earplug,
the spines stuck in my inner pink skin.

I lean my head to the right, knock
the left side with the flat of my palm.
Eggs, the same as desiccant beads,
the color of earwax, pitter-patter out and onto my table
as if they were plastic raindrops on a trampoline.

There will come a day when it cocoons itself, and that moth
flies free, but until that day, I will continue
to turn it towards you
every time you speak.

I've got oiled bearings of lead in my gut,
rolling through my intestines.
My mother's never cried quite enough;
I'll get some more tears out of her.

So cover my head in plastic,
pull that Velcro tight,
swallow down the pills
dissolving on the tongue,
dive off the building.

Corpse dangles from tree by snapped-twig neck,
innards spilled out from stomach like rotten raspberries,
nothing but stick-figure hang man.

Simon Iscariot's tears fall beside blood and water
that pours from your abdomen,
similar to the emulsion
from the spear-wound in Jesus. Christ
gave you the highest honor:

that of making all
ancient parchment
statements true.

They were then hidden away for centuries in dry clay pots
in musty caves of sheep-herders.

Father lowers you down
the greatest of care
to the arms of
Pieta' Mother.

She approaches, the **** skin creamy,
Except above the eyes, she is hairless,
exactly the same as polished marble.

Her back and haunches
curve like an inverted spoon of wax,
*** an upside-down heart pining
away for you to invade.

Nubile nymph, teardrop-shaped *******
move with each footfall the same as a slightly disturbed water surface.

The arms, two extended columns of stone, support
in their upturned palms, the alabaster plate of offerings.

Peach,
fuzz-covered, not like her crotch.

Apple,
the shape of her *** waiting for your worm.

Plum,
smooth like her skin and soon slippery with your saliva.

Orange,
like her ***** waiting to be peeled back so the tongue can enter.

Rambutan,
red as lust, yearns for your peeling to expose the coconut-hued innards.

Ripe Akebia,
cracks open, now full of glistening white seed.

His ******* angel wings can no longer lift him high enough. His silhouette
stands against the Morning Glory sky. He has not worn cologne
until this day. Now, the perfume of kerosene coats him. His
matchstick countdown has just hit zero,
ignition.

In flames, he launches off the edge of that crisp concrete line. He falls
ten stories, what was once a man, now an effigy not of stone
or wood, but flame which, wind-washed,
splays out as Ringed Plover wings,
ash feathers blown back.

With a crash of bone and pavement, his Chinese Lantern skin the color
of burnt-sienna, the blaze snuffs out. Through yellow plastic paper,
the creamy skinned women rush to his side. Mother,
Sister, Wife, cradle him, the fingers catch skin
which sloughs off in
flakes of
carbon.

All of the windows are painted with pitch.
Every doorway sewn shut with steel stitch.
Each body rots here - odor of decay.
Prison that holds ******* life in delay.

Along comes a turpentine brush - wash away.
Scissors that sever. The cords fall today.
Aerosol spray cleanses air in fresh bloom.
Star arrives. Now you can flee from this room.

Vanilla frozen cream
over slices of pink-orange inner flesh,
steam as something cold
is lain upon something hot.

The fluffy-whiteness spreads
the soft-firm peachiness apart, leaks
into the space between, gathers
in a small puddle of thick milkiness,
almost pearlescent.

Rolling-back eyes,
scent of precious fruit,
burning cold bowl
in hand, contents slide down the throat
all at once, swallow.

My dad is a leprous powdery-white cord of rot
that draws out of my throat lisping past tonsils
through the spaces in between the teeth.

All my life I wait for him to remove himself from me,
only to bite down as the last inches are about to pass
from my mouth.

He almost escapes - I swallow hard,
suppress the gag reflex:
he remains within me.

When I come:

spilling nova
fractal collage
globe thistle - electric blue
the end of me grinds into your fleshy, pierced pearl
a civilization pours out in tremors of hand-pumped Dial soap
ghostly pink Peonies brush my skin
rupturing continental shelf
swept aside moraine

All of my books are committing suicide
dive off the ends of my shelves
fall into oncoming traffic
pages ripped away by tire rubber
just as if they were hair

from the head of a trichotillomaniac

bandages from a burn victim's
rice paper skin
still wet and half-grafted
to dull pink gauze.

I wear a tie around my neck
and Testoni's over my socks
but underneath
my feet
are covered in pitch
throat is raspy
from too much ******
and cigarettes.

Walking into service
some splash water
from a golden bowl
onto their faces;
others snub
their cigarettes
out in it.

A monk teaches
that breathing
is the key to life;
he dies from
emphyzema
as Shaolin franchises
spring up across the globe
selling soap
at golf resorts.

My gutters leak blood
a menstruating pregnant woman.
Golden homicidal mothers
glance down from the entrance
of a Khmer city.

Typillian city we burn down every few decades
and build again.
Abandonded Anasazi
pueblos.
I can’t understand
you
I am a cryptologist failing to decipher
ancient Harappan.

I shake like a drooling fool,
exhale a snore
am spent as my drizzle creeps towards her ******.
The loose flesh of me weighed down upon her,

but she wasn't there

She was running through fields of fresh emerald spears,
chases the wild horses of Patagonia
never catches them as she is overrun
carried away by the stallions from behind,
blooms a water lily opens and closes over and over,
Cereus opens with the touch of the Moon over and over,
feel the dust hear the waves of trampling hooves

as her face, a tense string,
shatters into an open mouthed smile and shout of,

"I am life, and you are the most blessed of creatures, here.
I am the glamor of everything.
I am Mother Earth in this moment,
screaming, fitting, wailing, quaking, coming.
Your diminishment has made this possible.
Bathe in the spinning cradle of life,
and stay still before you retreat from it."

Your life may never be the same,
but there will come a time when I don't
drive you to distraction
occupy your mind
engulf your every moment

but I am not here for the conception of new memories:
coffee
arguments
commercials
Sunday dinners
shared cigarettes
pregnancy news from family
getting high
getting sick
car ride album listens
dark room hair pulls
bright room eye locks
glances across the table because
          everyone else is so stupid, aren't they?
squeezing into a too small bath together

They are all disintegrating
moments break apart
fall away from you,
left only with the clichéd sand through your fingers
like the memories of the

sme l of my b eath
f el of my tou h
so nd  o m vo ce
s  h   f  y fa e
  ve I h    y u

The sight
of you,
bled out
in that bath
steam rising
like the soul
from a corpse
will haunt me
until the day I die;
I'm sure it will be soon.

My fat, fleshy pale belly
pushes the inside of my shirt out,
and I'm ripping off Bukowski.

The sign for the travel section was far too obvious
for me to have noticed.
And you can tell you are by the woman's magazine section
by the perfume scent that burns your nose.
Strangers watch me type these notes into my phone notepad
thinking how superficial young people are these days
texting all the time.

And suddenly,
I am shooting **** into the current.
tossing my wedding band into the ocean waves
reflecting the moon like...
trying to write fast enough to catch up to my thoughts
and the words come crashing into them
a train going off a cliff.

And suddenly,
weaver ants are carrying eggs,
devouring albino widows.
Ochroma flower licked by Kinkajou,
insects lapped up from their grave of
sugary water.

My Brittle Star arms detach in the acidic water of you.

I stir, and try to escape the gaping tremor or your teeth
uncovered face
free of meat.

Roaches crawl inside your skull,
the bone powdered with the years,
all that remains:
Toskavat.

You are an Incan Mummy, the sack pulled off,
as rosy-cheeked, young boys stare through misty bus windows
still spackled with flecks of mud from your wet road.
They smile -
their microbes shared unintentionally,
a condomless foam party.

This love burns and drips

an unclean **** knot
******* and *******
at tailgate parties in basements
where everybody is satisfied
except for one...

The sky is painted static:
I can't find the channel.

A frail cherub descends
gossamer threads of maize splay out about its head
brings the sky back with it
and in hues of pink and life,
restores me.

Hypnotized by your blank kaleidescope
caress you like a Kwashiorkor belly
rotund
smooth and round abdomen, empty and
covered with flies
an allegiance to parasitism,
supported by the skeletal mass
too thin to pull the body along,
ground-glass ground
ochre earth,
away from the feathered death
stepping lively behind you
hooks pierce the sand,
soon your meat.

you scream at me
with colic voice
cut you open
I have no choice

Today I was driving in my car, looking at my notepad
shoved without care
corner of a page bent
spirals grasped for life on the edge of that dive.

I thought that I felt I wanted to write,
but the glass inside my head was empty.
Forcing it full just causes it to break,
and so I wait for it to fill, fill, fill,
overflow and
capsize.

It comes suddenly:

a stroke in the section of the brain that biologists
have yet to identify.

a phone ringing at three thirty-eight in the morning.

a cat leaping from behind the corner, hitching a momentary ride on your calf.

a rush of amniotic fluid from a pregnant woman's crotch as
she stands over smooth tile.

How many pens have come apart in your mouth?
How much
redblueblackgreen ink
have you ingested in these pen-cap chew moments of inspiration,
trying to steer without looking,
shift with only *******,
scribble without seeing,
glances from concerned motorists in adjacent lanes.

How many
slips of napkins
notepads
envelopes
bills
book covers
receipts
skin
have you marked in fits of...

"Blood keeps drinking away, certain of its destination. Driving through New Orleans at night. Gotta find a destination...just one fix." ~ Ministry

Sick
I gargle your blood one last time
I hear you tell stories of authors
you love so much
while inside my head digs tunnels
to China

At first unwrapping,
(a child with no eyelids)
the chunk of tar
always seems fist-sized - until it is gone

High
You are suddenly there,
a cool summer morning anxious to be far too hot,
wind blows through you as if it were
balloons
in rainbow hues.

Reloaded conception, sanity.

Sick*
Stupid -
doing your part by recycling cans,
wasting water cleaning each one out,
equation a zero-sum,
positive multiplied by a negative.

Aokigahara, a Sea of Trees,
redolence of a carrion flower attracts flies.
They land, bring up dissolution and
spread your legs
where they deposit the eggs.

Beachy Head, a white plume of efflorescent death.

I bend over
drag your fingers on my spiral spinal protrusion.

I want you inside of me,
fist in a mother cattle's birth canal.

I'm elated at this.
I wonder why it feels so cold, when I'm so hot and wet.

Take it,
a focused heresy.

Say my name
if you can guess it.

I know yours:
Chastity and Life.

****, I miss you.
My eyes are bending down into this face.
I was smiling, but now I stand on my head…
I don’t feel I’ll ever right myself.
I gossip about you to everyone.  
You are a pillow cut open atop this twisted steel skyscraper,
loose the feather and no one can retrieve it.

We all watch you fade so slowly away on the wind.
We try so hard not to jump after you.
We are not as light, and less aerodynamic.
We would fall like stones,

and so

eyes misted with the dew of loss,
we watch you
fade away so slowly on the wind,
farther,
father,
until your point of brightest azurean love
is lost up in the deep glass sky.

"What are you doing here? You're not even old enough to know how bad life gets."

"Obviously, Doctor, you've never been a thirteen year-old girl." ~ The ****** Suicides*

The smell of teenage lipstick and sunbeams
Why are they different from us?
(it's so great they are different from us)
These memories of our youth,
transient,
will mean more than the permanent ones of adulthood.

The flash sparkle of amber in her eyes
high and low pressure air combined
my name on your *******
breaking smoke circles
the sound of vinyl stabbed
just listen to them,
the taste of peach schnapps.

"You don't have to talk to me."
terrible sources of information
"We weren't talking if you know what I mean..."
And off they go to join the thirty-thousand plus

Orchid pod spreads
gossamer mouth opens
subtle click of saliva,
trace across the paper-thin petal,
tickle across the veins where blood rushes new life,
smooth like wet latex, tongue massages a route around the world,
face buried in field of color
osmopheric scent of cinnamon
apples
nickel
overcomes,
come over me
pour the dew across my lips
drown me in the waves
that make your muscles cry my name,
nine point nine and the world cracks open,
like the ghostly leftover milk bath
of a ******'s first cleansing after loss of maidenhead,
it spills over us.

Smell of you on my lips
taste of you on my fingers
gaze of you on my skin
warmth as you envelope me
shuddering of skin
shedding of sin

We consummate in a shared womb of ink
above and below cotton blows like springtime,
a perfect non-sequitur segue where
flowers of aloe bloom
swollen pods that explode
spraying pollen everywhere.