A con tricking one into focusing on the temporary.

I want an exclusive relationship
but I don’t know why
I try to tell myself I don’t want a disease
or that cheating would prove you don’t love me
but if I’m being honest with myself
I’m afraid you’ll find somebody better
either better at ***
or better at caring
or better financially
whatever it takes to be better enough
to make me an unacceptable option
and our relationship an exclusionary one.

A strand of your hair borders
my ocean of tears.
Grains of sand mold together
forming mud.
You stand nonchalantly on the berm
staring over the vast nothingness
of the waterway nether.
Ocean floor follicles utilize
microscopic cilia.
Tiny motile tendrils propel me
along rock bottom.
Octopi submerged in sand banks
wait, coiled callously.
Ambush tentacles envelope me while
pulling me into the bell.
My depths always seem
darker than yours.
Claustrophobic.
Suffocating.
Narrow.
Caverns and coves collapse, caving
in before I ever find them.
I'm tied to tumultuous tentacles tangling,
blocking my butterfly stroke to the beach
where your hair washes upon the shore
like seastruck flotsam building barricades.

It’s ok to be harmlessly pretentious
give your ideas and life some credit
& venerate your ideas with research
don’t browbeat others with negativity
or a misjudged sense of intellectuality
but don’t be afraid to aim for lofty ideas
perhaps ideas that are hard to fully grasp
even seemingly beyond your comprehension
the most interesting ideas usually work that way
immerse yourself in the terminology of your interest
until you can understand the language of their glossary
eventually writing new sentences that become paragraphs
until what seemed like a pretense becomes the present tense.

Parody of Eminem's classic "Stan". TW: Graphic ****** content*

The tea's not cold I'm wondering why I
got in your bed at all
my ***** brain clouds up my sense though
and I can't breed at all
and even if I could it'll all be gay
put your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's all I have
it's all I have.

The tea's not cold I'm wondering why I
got in your bed at all
my ***** brain clouds up my sense though
and I can't breed at all
and even if I could it'll all be gay
put your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's all I have
it's all I have.

Dear Jim, I wrote you but you still ain't callin'
I left my cell, my Grindr, and my home phone at the bottom
I sent two messages back in autumn, you must not a got 'em
there's probably a problem when I post often or somethin'
sometimes I wear dresses and get too sloppy when I'm joggin'
but anyways, **** me, up my ****, I'm a power otter
I'll probably get pregnant too, I'm 'bout to be a daddy
if I have a daddy, guess what I'm a call him?
I'm a name him Ronnie
I read about your Uncle Bonnie too I'm sorry
I had a friend **** himself over some ***** who didn't want him
I know you probably hear this every day
but I'm the biggest man
I even got a bigger **** than Dan
I got a room full of your posters and pictures man
I like the **** you did with Rawkus too, his **** was fat
anyways, I hope you get this man, hit me from the back
then we'll chat, truly yours, your biggest fan
another man.

The tea's not cold I'm wondering why I
got in your bed at all
my ***** brain clouds up my sense though
and I can't breed at all
and even if I could it'll all be gay
put your picture on my Facebook wall
it reminds me that it's all I have
it's all I have.

Dear Jim, you still ain't called or wrote, I hope you have a chance
I ain't mad, I just think it's ****** up you don't answer my demands
if you didn't want to talk to me outside your **** you didn't have to
but you coulda signed an autograph for Matthew
that's my little brother man, he's only sixteen years old
we waited in the blistering cold for you
for four hours and you just said "no"
that's pretty ****** man, you'd like ******' his guy hole
he wants to **** just like you man, he likes you more than I do
I ain't mad though, I just don't like bein' lied to
remember when we met on Grindr, you said if I'd write you you'd write back
see I'm just like you I'm gay
I ****** a swallower named Caesar
then a guy named Tom and a guy named Peter
I can relate to how you're playing in a thong
so when I have a ****** day I drift away and put 'em on
'cause I don't got **** else so that **** helps when I'm depressed
I even got a tattoo of your name across the chest
sometimes I even **** myself to see how much it bleeds
it's like adrenaline, the pain is such a sudden rush for me
see everything you say is real, and I respect you 'cause you tell it
my boyfriend's jealous because I talk about you 24/7
but he doesn't know you like I know you Jim, no one does
he don't know what it was like for people like us growin' up, you gotta call me man
I'll be the biggest man you'll ever lose
sincerely yours, Stan
P.S. we should be together too.

The tea's not cold I'm wondering why I
got in your bed at all
my ***** brain clouds up my sense though
and I can't breed at all
and even if I could it'll all be gay
put your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's all I have
it's all I have.

Dear Mister "I'm too good to call or write my mans"
this will be the last package I ever put in your ***
it's been six humps and still no *****, I don't deserve it?
I know you got my last two pictures and I put my dresses on perfect
so this is my *** I'm sending you, I hope you spear it
I'm in the bar right now, I'm doing 90 guys to be gay
hey Jim, I drank a fifth of Bob's ***
you dare me to ride?
You know the song by Macklemore, "Same Love"?
About that guy who could've had *** with that other guy but didn't
then Macklemore saw it all and then had to show he found him?
That's kind of how this is, you could've rescued me from other guys
now it's too late, I'm on a thousand poppers now, I'm *****
and all I wanted was a lousy letter then your *****
I hope you know I ripped all of your pictures off my Facebook wall
I love you Jim, we coulda been together, think about it
you ruined it now, I hope you can't sleep and you dream about it
and when you dream I hope you can't sleep and you cream about it
I hope your conscience eats at you and you can't breed without me
see Jim, shut up *****! I'm tryin' to talk!
Hey Jim, that's my boyfriend screamin' when I ****
but I didn't use his throat, I just tied him up, see I ain't like you
'cause if he suffocates he'll *** more and then he'll ride too
well, gotta go, it's almost in my **** now
oh ****, I forgot, how am I supposed to **** this **** out?

The tea's not cold I'm wondering why I
got in your bed at all
my ***** brain clouds up my sense though
and I can't breed at all
and even if I could it'll all be gay
put your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's all I have
it's all I have.

Dear Stan, I meant to write you sooner but I just been blue
you said you're pregnant now, how far along are you?
Look, I'm really flattered you would call your daddy that
and here's a **** pic for your brother
I made sure to show my mushroom cap
I'm sorry I didn't see you at the ****, I must've missed you
don't think I did that **** intentionally just to diss you
but what's this **** you said about you like to **** ***** too?
I say that **** just clownin' dog, come on, how ****** up is you?
You got some issues Stan, I think you need some **** rings
to help your **** from bouncing off the walls when you get in some
and what's this **** about us meant to be together?
That type of **** will make me not want us to meet each other
I really think you and your little brother need each other
or maybe you just need to treat him better
I hope you get to read this letter, I just hope it reaches you in time
before you hurt yourself, I think that you'll be doin' just fine
if you relax a little, I'd be glad to be inside you but Stan
why are you so mad? Try to understand, that I do want you as my man
I just don't want you to do some crazy ****
I seen this one **** on the news a couple weeks ago that hardened my ****
some dude was ****** over and over like a *****
even his boyfriend was ******, and he was pregnant with his kid
and in their car they found a tape, but they didn't say who it was to
come to think about it, his name was, it was you
whoopsie daisy!

Through those elected
deceptive meets collective
tearing down monuments erected
to deny dominance projected
but the counterculture
hounds and vultures
shroud the souls hurt
with shouts of sulfur.

The goblin fray
waddling parade
ballista barricade
sends us on the path of the dodo
dipping cheese in the snow cone
as we freeze for our photo
of an apocalypse in slow-mo.

We break by blade
so we brake by day
they break like they're paid
to brake in the way
which adds thirty minutes to my drive
because two cars collide
on the median's other side.

Battling babble
rattling rattles
adding addles
to paddling paddles
fighting against the current
of the unobservant
dumb obscurants.

They only want to confabulate
to *******
the master state
and master race
obfuscating the rhetoric
using anger to redden it
once you get ahead of it
they ask you to take a sedative.

I'd like to live in a grassy township
instead of this trash heap brown ****
but I'm massively bounded
to the ones who found it
from the other side of the bath
they brought their wrath
to set our path.

The blasted puppeteers
laughed for ******* years
now collapse in sudden tears
projecting their own worst fears
on their imperiled peers
who are scared to steer
near the flying spears.

They want to annex the city
of the loving and living
for their own selfish bidding
using obstruction for corruption
like injunctions against inductions
for interruption dysfunction
at our most pivotal junction.

Assaulting offense
halting progress
absolving nonsense
as purely God sent
is fought with reason and logic
so we bring them their audit
but they use thick ink to blot it.

We found the virus
but we can't cure it
until we've silenced
the obscurants.

I’m glad people make art for people like me
who have a bramble thicket in their garden
that constantly becomes tangled
and must constantly be untangled.

I’m glad people make art for people like me
who’ve learned to appreciate
the beauty of their knots
and the satisfaction of becoming untied.

I’m glad people make art for people like me
spinning a crystalline web of entanglements
knitting through a network of knots
clearing the cobwebs from my garden.

I’m glad people make art for people like me
trapping me in their wondrous web
facilitating my becoming
the kind of person who makes art for people like me.

Your beauty
Shot through me
Assigning a duty
I knew I'd be losing
So I made an advance
And you declined
I knew I had a slim chance
But I was still losing my mind

I felt stupid
I felt weak
Why did Cupid
Make me weep?
From behind the gate he keeps
He shot arrows penetrating deep
That made me fall for the elite
Only to be trampled by feet

I saw perfection
Feed me rejection
I cursed my reflection
And avoided detection
After losing the election
You could tell I was bitter
So you left me to wither
And call you a sinner
For not eating my dinner
Feeding damage inner
Rotting my liver

I was gobsmacked
By the odd lack
Of contact
With your fond laugh
Sitting there seething
To white noise on the TV
Sounding like the rain heaving
Or a pack of coyotes eating
My still beating heart
You're the fleeting spark
That leaves me dark

I wished there was no one on Earth
So you could be as lonely as I
After you took all my self worth
And left me to die
I reached for a piece of the pie
Then you made me reach for the sky
Using the pistol in your eyes
You made me reach for the sky
It hurt then but looking back I know why
God put you in my life but not by my side
You made me reach for the sky

I like to end the game with my shields up
And my hero buffed
And enhancement stuffed
But sometimes that isn't enough
Sometimes I kick the loser while they're down
So they can join me below the ground
In this mentality where I drown

Life is a test
And I gave up
In this game I'm the best
So it's here I'm stuck
In a world of fable
A developer's tale
Where I prevail
And find validation
By achieving victory
Then causing agitation
Because of my misery

Victory means I'm better
Victory means I'm smarter
Once your flag is fettered
I call you a starter
Thinking I'm somehow harder
Discounting my partners
In this digital harbor

With all my bickering
There's no mystery
Why the result starts differing
I hear the enemy team snickering
As my team starts whimpering

I feel my fortune shifting
Once luck isn't with me
And the match starts drifting
From a victorious gifting
To quite laborious indeed

I put all my time into this game
And nothing else
So I feel immense shame
From digital welts
This individual hell
Of a darkened cell
Is where I fell
Convinced my ability
Is proof of some secret potential
I give my life willingly
To prove to gamers I'm special

I’m with you every day
you could say there are days I’m not
but those are just lapses in time
where the sun and moon
rise and fall
obsessing
over your presence and absence
while I’m drifting through time
to drift with you.

We sat in the back of science class
bored out of our minds; we'd hit each
other with pencils across our forearms
until we were striped red and white and

we looked like dancing shrimps. We found
comedy in hurting each other, playing
both sadist and *******, feeling
the power of inflicting damage
and the humility of pain.

Years later not much had changed—
the pencils now needles, blood striped our arms.
The classroom, like my home—now a car, we joked
about burning a library in Alexandria. The humor remained

but it had changed; no longer about what lied ahead
we joked about what was;
architects of a fallen temple
that never stood yet continued to be raided.

Once the jokes became stale
I couldn't swallow them anymore
spitting out a poppyseed after
receiving the Heimlich maneuver

yet others choke their whole life
on a hollow humor tumor
benign until malignant
the ruins of their adytum
cover the hill to die on.

What's up?
Not much
what about you?
Not much too
I have bad luck
and work *****
my life is stuck
and I'm out of bucks.
I know right?
Good night.
Maybe we can talk tomorrow
filled with guilt and sorrow
our connection is this hollow
I wonder why you even follow
I don't want you to stall though
because I'm there as far as the wall goes
but you got me singing alto.

I just want to know how you're doing
and be a part of your beautiful life
but to frivolous things I'm gluing
when I only hear about your night
because the things out of sight
are our real plights
tightly sealed fights
with shame and spite
this game gets light
with someone else carrying the weight
not of what celebrity I hate
but my mental state
and fears of fate
let me hear you say
you know a better way.

Let's relate through culture
to avoid the vicious vultures
that make our souls hurt
and focus on what bolsters
our growth and development
for love and the hell of it
to observe your mellow wit
between kissing your fellow lips.

We have personalities
we're allowed to see
crying and howling
to be accepted proudly
instead of constant doubting
after a not much text
a rock rough hex
leaves me vexed
not thinking or learning
I'm sinking while burning
for my secret yearning
of a way more journey.

During the winter weeks
everything looks bleak
so I can hardly speak
looking to out-sleep
this subzero streak
of record lows
and checkered toes
from blizzard blows
the geese all go
but I stall froze
in this tundra tunnel
where the water breaks
must be signs of the shovel
and all it takes
to obfuscate
my massive lake's
frozen fate
and the cozen gate
for that chosen date.

I need to erase these bland hues
for leaves to sprout brand new
to brighten my ****** view
like I'm living in Cancun
chilling at Chichen Itza
chowing on chicken pizza
staring at the colorful sky
under which I never hide
but those are just colors in my mind
looking at the bleakness and the grime
I'm weakened by this time
I need to stay alive
to see the days get wide
and colors collide
releasing me from the darkness fog
so I won't be a heartless sod
after people start to dodge
my evil dark flaws.

Once the clouds split
they'll give me a gift
removing the ****
that makes me slip
on the ice all around me
covering the water in which I'm drowning
when my virulent vision starts browning
erasing positive colors and mentality.

This world will be less neutral
after my diffused old
infused soul
find renewal
in the sun's jewels
creating more vibrant colors
than the winter's covers
of black and white
with lack of light
and saddened sight
to mask what's right.

Once the sun brings back the day
I'll put down my gun and come out to play
but life isn't fun living this way.

Once I'm no longer awake
I'm put into dire straits
by my mind state
lying to make
me crying great
until I find a gate
to my one true fate.

My mind puts me in high and hung spots
with murderous guys and subplots
or both my eyes forming blood clots
the maze of my mind must get unclogged
leading me towards the one solve
retreating to what I know best
retreating to drugs
I come down off the eagle's nest
and onto the rug
where I crawl like a slug
from the high flying bugs
who want to eat my insides
and only exist in mind.

My brain gives me visions
of the **** I used to live in
making me want to give in
to the syringe's incisions
trapped on a crashing plane
I find a needle
to silence my thrashing brain
I stab the steel
screaming this isn't real
but that's just how it feels
after countless drug deals
it's all my brain reveals.

My mind gives me an option:
to face it
or to run
I can't embrace it
like it's the sun
and I'm the one
Gatling gun
spinning spun
until the chore is done
and the war is won
so I can score my dub
and get nightmare numb.

Once I find bliss sedated
the terror will have dissipated
but when I awake this is hated
bringing back the mist that faded
and all the chaos it created.

I wake up in a cold sweat
ready to face the day
I don't know how cold it gets
but I bet it's here to stay.

If we could observe no other organisms with wings
how much longer would it have taken us to achieve flight?

I'm on a delivery
speeding down this precarious winding road
                  speeding for efficiency
    speeding for style
the sun strobes yellow through the trees
    like a sign for yielding
but the cars behind me tailgate
speed is maintained for fear of getting hit.

          Time flies as fast as
the lines on the road entrance me
          driving through a haze
the sun is obscured by cumulus clouds
           then disappears.

There's low visibility at night and my headlights are fading.
            Everything is blurry through my win shield.
         Weather gets colder in the absence of the sun
                                                       ice forms on the road.
A decision is made to maintain speed at the expense of control.
  A dusty bible slides back and forth in my glove compartment
                 dancing with my wayward movements.

     My light traces the road
like a spark tracing a fuse
the wick burns quickly for a fiery delivery.
My yellow lights trace yellow lines
so the road stays yellow all the time
         but I can see the darkness
over my shoulder as well as the road's
my headlights keep the darkness at bay
        but it's tedious driving this way.

          Movement never ceases
     I shouldn't be texting and driving
but I need someone to know I'm trying.
   This road took everything from me
       this road became my purpose
       something somewhat special
         that couldn't be purchased.

I'm on a delivery
destination undefined
it's not about where I'm going but how far
which is why I wish I could buy a new car.

Winter spills over Kentucky
like a splash of liquid nitrogen

what eats is scarce because what's eaten is scarce
scavengers search trash cans—enjoying the warmth inside

ice scabs over fluvial lakes
once their revenue streams have been frozen

a faint, far away generator screams away the cold
like smokestacks on the horizon

(all that smoke must mean something
I figure something must be burning)

a fire burns somewhere—I'm not there
I'm here, and here, there's a fire over there

crimson cardinals appear through neutral trees
like I was struck in the head with a blunt object

darkness drifts overhead where geese drift away
as Kentucky loses consciousness

gauzy snow is wrapped around the state
—a cold compress for the fall's wounds

time heals all wounds
but is a wound itself.

Relationships need trust and honesty
I need to trust you're honest with yourself
but you got me grappling and groveling
every time I loosen my belt
your face starts to melt
pulling shame off the shelf
your blame takes my health.

Too many accusations
too much blame
I experience saturation
in your flame
of toxic guilt
with which I'm filled
from the oil you spill
on a torn canvas
like a praying mantis
straining my bandwidth
until I can't sit and demand this
**** sandwich no longer be brandished.

You blame me for everything
even when you're wrong
you look at every sting
as a planted bomb
**** I'm gone
the lamb I'm on
from your grand ole song
I'm a handled hog
freed from a damaged log.

You're always right
like the hand I ******* with
without you in sight
I'm bound to my coffin.

Why don't you answer?
I just want to talk
it's like a silent cancer
making me want to stalk
or outline with chalk
our friendship
and why I must end this.

I want to quietly leave
like the way you stay
pay me no heed
I'll be in my grave
instead of be in the way
I'll bleed just to say
anything for attention paid.

Your evasion's abrasions
stole my elation
and substituted placation
to complete my disintegration
within your disinterest nation
where the citizens never vote or protest
they just see who floats the lowest
learning how to go the slowest.

It isn't clingy as ****
to say I don't see you enough
to leave out this rut
I need your disrupt
but all I hear is a lack of sound
so I back on down
to the blackened ground
where I'm the last around
in a silence loud.

I’m a snowflake falling through night’s mute darkness
landing in the prismatic puddle of gasoline
left by the fumes of your car’s exhaust
collecting on top of the gravelly grime
of an Amazon fulfillment center
where the snow settles but never sticks
in the ascending puddles behind your car.

When the cold rain enters
it makes me remember
lifetimes of past Decembers
and their nasty embers.
Each drop a designer
momentary reminder
of a recreational resigner's
unchecked timer.
I am not reborn
in the rain's misty scorn
I see Satan's horns
in rain clouds formed.

Sensory recall
makes me fall
into the needle
of a lifestyle fetal
crying for my mommy
of a ****** haunting
my past life is flaunting
through raindrops upon me
their ripples are bombing
my mentality modeling
of the unguarded godly.

Inclement
in descent
in cement
mixed with saline
so I may dream
maiming Maybelline
makes me made to scream
drowning in memory
separating what's ahead of me
with the possible death of me
after a moment of leveling
water brings devil's wings.

I guess I'm like this forever
mainlined or severed
would've been much better
than stuck in the nether
between order and chaos
mortars of raindrops
show where my aim lost
and the insane cost
of the water in the syringe
raining into my veins
so I cry and I cringe
when it rains all the same.

Travel through the viscous chaos
super Alice uber alles
nationalism and competition disappear
mad hatter brain matter
wondering where’s the next fix
loser palace user malice
building bars around bridges
syrup sanity hear no humanity
off in the foggy distance
mushroom madness Mario Mathers
losing touch with reality
Cheshire Cat **** mired map
leads through a maze with no end.

Amongst a hedgerow a vulpine den
lies parallel to the road and ranches
in a burrow where the residents lay
between man's best friend and vermin.

Imperial hunters track serpentine paw prints
that lead underground; a temporary home.
A permanent grave; a house for humans
must be built here, even if it means

eviction by execution
foreclosure by fire.

Smoke billows before American Foxhounds
drool dripping from canines; saliva trails lead
to their master's boots; the tactical militant kind.

A hollow existence is paved over
cementing a subterranean legacy.
Now the smoke billowing before the foxhounds
exits through the fireplace rising from the grave.

They meet every Thursday
They're a worship team
They meet every Thursday
To develop a worship scheme
To show how the Lord leans
Through musical means

They meet every Thursday
That's not quite church day
But it's their rehearse day
So they don't play the first way
Which would be the worst way
When worshipping on the church stage

They meet every Thursday
To rehearse their music
They've got the Holy Spirit
And there's no way they'll lose it
They'll continue to use it
To save brothers from bruises
They know what the truth is
And they want to exude it

They meet every Thursday
So surely I even heard they
Come in on their birthday
They say it's worth praise
Not of their own ways
But of the Lord's grace
Glorifying Him is first place
So they meet every Thursday

I was miserable at 16;
math problems were
hypnotic hieroglyphs
lulling me to sleep
adding up fleeting years
until I was only myself
through transitive property.
All that seems so far away
now that a baker's decade
divides me from that negativity
—which is a plus,
no longer subtracting
from the remainder
exiting the X axis
shifting my gaze
to smokestacks on the horizon
protruding into the Y;
mysteries postponed
carry over into adulthood
pondering the permutations
of possibilities
had those equations been solved.
Nonetheless, I remained undefined
igniting infernos
to create smoke I could explain
like steam rising from the spoon
building facsimiles of smokestacks
multiplying scattered wildfires
until new generations
had smokestacks to stare at.
All that behind me
I've driven further down the road
yet the smokestacks
seem as far away as ever;
they never changed, I did,
adjusting to the variables
and my deciphering deficiency
enjoying each point on the line
especially when it seems like
I'm earlier in my sequence;
momentary minuses show me 16
and far off smokestacks
down a road untraveled
eager to accept my driver's license
so I could factor into the problem.

Referees mismanage oversight
incorrect calls lower credibility
faith in justice dissolves into the ice
agency is taken into padded hands
vigilantes slash and spear.

Hip check leads to cross check leads to fist check
malignant hostility boils over
leather armor is removed
interphalangeal joints meet mandible
type O negative paints a jersey
haymakers take bizarre trajectories
to avoid helmets and visors
the face is homebase to ingrain pain.

Violence subverts gamesmanship
players must be taken off ice
to be put on ice
otherwise brawls become overabundant
and destroy the integrity of the sport
yet each transfer of agony is euphorically satisfying
—considering the context—
so fist fairs continue for the foreseeable future
we organize an impenetrable perimeter
once we've acclimated to penalty kills.

Capitalists capitalize
markets become factions
purchasing power negated
by marketing power
attention betrays humility
the town crier speaks agreeable rhetoric
would you like to read more for 99₵?
man drops change reaching in his pocket
his eyes scan the paper without reading
he skips the climate content—
he just wants to know the weather
coins collected by the crier are tossed in wishing wells
money shimmers in the shallow waters.

Envying elevation
neon arrows direct us toward saccharine sonnets
the seating is comfortable—the costumes are immaculate
curtains raise revealing Vaudeville starlets
the audience sits and claps
dying in the silence between laughs.

The market speaks in tongues
its invisible hand strangles culture
PG rules programming for product generating
companies like Procter & Gamble to advertise,
The proctor sets strict rules to lessen the gamble.
Grief spreads through infantilized thoughts
like toxic waste dispersing through the tributaries of a drying river
the fish are dying—their offspring are mutants
ageless wonders that never see the shore.

When
Where am I going?
and
Where have I been?
have the same answer
it’s nowhere.

Alex Smith is a quarterback
more importantly a husband, son, and father
who is cut no sort of slack
in a sport of slaughter.

West coast offense
almost always softens
someone in the pocket
used to quick tosses.

A deserved demotion to backup
made his life increasingly harder
all of the mistakes and bad luck
called for a new start for the starter.

Washington by way of San Francisco
he wasn't high up as far as the list goes
Alex Smith got his wish though
and was back in the fishbowl.

Alex Smith was used in
a game against Houston
and was rolled into a compound fracture
from a double defensive back compactor.

His trip to the hospital
wasn't quite optimal
and it kept getting worse
opening the door to a hearse.

The doctors detected
the wound was infected
Alex had become septic
with bacteria interjected.

Blood pressure dropping
and a fever rising
you know he wasn't flopping
by the way he was writhing.

The leg was turning black
and developing huge blisters
the knowledge they lacked
to heal the maimed mister.

His wife was worried
so were the physicians
to surgery they hurried
on a life saving mission.

The doctors discovered the issue
was necrotizing fasciitis
infecting skin and muscle tissue
like a black King Midas.

Daily debridement
helped with askew alignment
but the bone still looked like a trident
and the infection was the only assignment.

Should they take the leg while they can cut below the knee?
Is wanting to live your life a form of greed?
Does a steed consider its ambulatory needs?
Alex just follows the doctor's lead.

Eight debridements leave the tibia completely exposed
but the necrotizing fasciitis is gone
yet once one's legs explode
how can they move on?

Replacement skin comes from the quad
despite the risk of failure
the doctors took over for God
as epidermic tailors.

Intense physical therapy
is better than sitting scarily
or holding onto life barely
so Alex proceeded merrily.

Eventually healing
getting back to wheeling
this game didn't end in kneeling
when there was extra time to be stealing.

He was told he wouldn't play anymore
he was told he'd lose his leg
now the doctors have nothing to say anymore
and he's only looking ahead.

Playing with no team name
it was definitely no dream game
two teams that were three and seven
but for one quarterback this was heaven.

Two years after getting injured
Alex beats a divisional opponent
something no one would've inferred
back in that pivotal moment.

Fall becomes Winter.
Time changes. Time rearranges.
Each season provides its own challenge.

A shaving becomes a beard.
The snow falls. The snow piles.
Snowballs gain momentum and grow.

A scratch becomes an ache.
I can't breathe. I can't swallow.
I won't last long but this will last forever.

The cold becomes pneumonia.
I have coughing fits. I have blockage.
Phlegm builds an island to be marooned upon.

Habitation becomes hibernation.
The animals escape. The animals sleep.
They wait for the light to shine on them once more.

Mitigation becomes migration.
The birds fly away. The birds fly South.
As they flee their wings push cold air down toward us.

Winter becomes Spring.
I have become someone else.
A man who has felt another Winter.

Wanting to eat
we **** every animal that allows us to approach
until we’ve lost countless opportunities for domestication
and only the creatures that fear us or fight us are left.

The Moriori were a pacifist tribe living in the Chatham Islands
they ate well on abundant sea life until that secret got out
and they came into contact with the violent Māori from Wellington
this initial contact was a 12 year old girl’s flesh hung on posts
yet the Moriori council determined a peaceful approach to the Māori
who proceeded to enslave, ******, and eat the Moriori at will
the last Moriori descendant died in 1933, about 100 years later
Māori descendants make up about 16% of New Zealand’s population.

Wanting to eat
we **** every animal that allows us to approach
until we’ve lost countless opportunities for domestication
and only the creatures that fear us or fight us are left.

Should a poet consider
what their work looks like in portrait mode
and adjust their lineation accordingly?
Or should the responsibility be on the reader to use landscape mode?

I thought your love for me was a form of animal husbandry
but after two humps
you became the camel that broke the straw’s back.

Down at the business factory profits were low
or at least lower than the shareholders wanted
so Hyper-Capitalist Genius Man masterminded a brilliant plan:
“We have three people performing a task
two people could accomplish while losing their minds
attrition rates shouldn’t be a concern
because we’ll just streamline the jobs
so there’ll always be desperate workers
who can easily replace the disillusioned ones.”.

The other businessers were impressed
the emperor of business had heard enough:
“****** you’re ‘Work People to Death‘ theory might just work.
I’m naming you chief execution officer of the company.”.
Profits went up and were disseminated amongst the higher-ups
so that everyone that mattered was happy
all thanks to Hyper-Capitalist Genius Man.

The sun saturates—maturates my family's backyard
like clomiphene for chlorophyll.
Swords emerge from my sward, harboring mosquitoes,
the edges need to be filed down.
Father would edge the lawn, trimming its sides
to make a perfect geometric shape.
The wind would push the grass down,
like God patting the top of the field's head.
I would cut that grass—each blade sent through my blades
dispersing into a green mist.
Clippings are thrown into bat cave black garbage bags
tied tight to avoid leakage.
But when I go inside, I notice that green powder
has collected on my shoes.

Deep underwater
we blow unwilling bubbles
pockets of blue air

There exists an area between hurt and healed called scarred
it's a place that isn't found—but revealed
tectonic plates protecting the core
my vibrating feet split the earth
forming my fault of separation
passive plains give way to cliffs and valleys
your seismograph detected  tremors
so you escaped to safer ground
outside my sightline from inside the trench emerging
memories are all I need to dig deeper
so remembrance goes through a grainy filter
glorifying the other side of my grave of grime
engendering assumptions of purity lying
beyond the fresh dirt door
where the undead hold their light sticks and disco *****
creating light without illumination
I stumble into them like a moth at night
bumping into the last vestiges of light
they say multiplying two negatives equals a positive
but this whole keeps going deeper
we just acclimate to the depths
making a competition of going furthest down
excavating our descent by expanding the division in the land
until magma erupts
lighting the voluminous pit
revealing the hell we've dug
trickster shadows dance along the sides
hypnotizing the feral demons staring
slack-jawed at the empty canvas of the cave walls
attributing the beauty of what they've missed to ghosts
telling ourselves our horns make us unique
until the lava starts burning us
as a reminder of humanity
continuation ensures incineration
yet this cavern has become my home
after convincing myself I belong here
so everybody hysterically huddles together
to protect themselves from the consequences
oozing from the pressurized center
I squeeze to fit into the middle of the crowd
putting bodies between myself and the nothingness that awaits
watching fellow spelunkers burn
while hoping the inevitable doesn't reach me
the liquid flame consumes my carcass
there's so many directions to fling the fire in
but I benignly accept my fate
knowing this is all my fault.

My brother and I explored a ravine
in our younger years. A wooded
labyrinth where the auburn
mist of fallen leaves
covered the floor
like a Burmese
tiger pit.

My brother
and I discovered
a lake, which became
a creek, which became
a swamp. I must've found
something exciting, because
I began sprinting homeward in a
juvenile fervor. Penetrating the
leafy shroud with my eager
feet. Unaware of traps
set subtly for those
tramping  through
the wilderness.

A nail,
I stepped
on a nail in my
recklessness. My
tennis shoe armor proved
futile against the steel weaponry.
Completely exposing my vulnerable
sole, the spiked interloper sank
its lone fang into me. The
pain shot through my
foot until ambulatory
abilities all but
vanished.

I didn't watch
where I was stepping
and landed on an inadvertent
weapon.
I should've
known the pollution of man
would stab me in my
outstretched hand.

A lesson was
learned about
paranoia and why
it exists. Even if I watch
where I'm going, polluters
will slit my wrists until the findings
of the swamp are forgotten in favor of scars.

“Hey, I heard about your accident. I’m here for you if you need to talk.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll keep that in mind. By the way I heard about your breakup and I’m here to talk if you need to as well.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

...

...

...

Distant coddled
alabaster runs wild
savoring the vortex of a
muscle mired maelstrom
Caligula's throne sits in the eye of the hurricane
we write letters to ourselves—self absolving sin
rhetorical ramparts squelch responsibility
free wind tickles the tips of branches, the trees stay still.

Broken bastion bereaved
bunkers are built for sandstorms
whether we weather the weather
or fall victim to the tsunami
there's a climate change in our self addressed letters—
they become less about love, more about death
after we see the treasure chest in the executioner's cache.

Devastation hollows the oppressed
a free agent becomes a Super Bowl champ
by defeating those who traded him
a letter sent home reads—I joined the winning team,
equality is inferior to superiority
those in glass houses throw stones
once they're invading stone houses.

Race to the top                sink to the bottom
of a valley where black sheep roam and scapegoats graze
waiting to become predatory lions
gnawing on the structured bones of lost wildebeests.
Wild animals don't write themselves letters
their only signature is their presence
an aura of selfish instinct.

I don’t want to consume art to escape my life
I want art that makes me confront my life
I want art that uncovers my blind faults
and reveals my secret triumphs.
What do I need to change?
Why do I need to change?
How do I need to change?
And why is the time for change now?
These questions help me escape from needing escapism.

I’m worried for my country and myself.
Microscopic maybes master my maze.
The undead use the unborn to fight the living.
If I were a zygote would they love me more?
I guess what could be is more appealing than what is.

I had a boyfriend with a mental illness
his name was Mental Illness.

Smile of shiny white enamel
radiant down to the dentin

sprinkling ******* on skinny brown blunts
drowned in Kentucky bourbon

fluorescent tubes encased in the ceiling
are fixated above candlelit chandeliers

during the storm the thunder seems like ripples
from lightning bolts that have already struck

trees are split in two (never equally)
a fire lies in the part that is one

the forest floor is filled with fallen trees and dead leaves
ashes fertilize survivors for growth.

Mangled by a gang of doppelgangers
the gangly are ganked by the gander

making advancements in cloning from advancements in clothing
and discoveries made through jean manipulation

facsimiles of progress betray judgement
a hamster wheel is made from a barrel of Kentucky bourbon

two hamsters run in opposite directions, butting heads
until they're teeth are chipped—down to the dentin.

Hong Kong protesters out in the streets
It's there they clash with police
Fighting to avoid legislative defeat
That would put them in the reach
Of the government's gripping grief

Hong Kong was a place to hide from fascism
But became a mad schism
Driven by hedonism
Justifying a decision
For China to make an incision

Meanwhile in Mexico
They're telling the rest to go
Back to their own country
Because a fascist is hunting
Using social issues for stunting
To distract from economic punting

Mexico was a tolerant purgatory
For those avoiding a death so gory
That nobody would know their story
As the drug cartels take all the glory
With the police and politicians they're affording
Using all the drugs they're exporting

These places used to be safe havens
From corruption laden
Militant ravens
Who are actually craven
Hiding behind guns and the arraignment
Of any other tribe walking their pavement

Now there's nowhere to escape
From the horrible hate
In this globalist state
So the noblest slate
Is to no longer wait
And set things straight

There’s a difference between dignity and pride
you can lose dignity without even trying
but shedding pride is a constant battle.

A good church is a cord connecting a community
God's umbilical cord connecting humanity
like the cords connecting the computers, cameras and microphones
the AV team meets every week to uplift a hundred seats
before worship practice starts they connect with one another
providing lines of praise and prayer tracing their hopes and fears
running diagnostics
checking the cords connected to instruments,  lighting, earpieces
removing the frays and knots
because the sermon runs smoothly when all the cords have been checked
the cords run throughout the church and up the band's spines
the voice of God lets them know they'll be playing the bridge again
so everybody throws up their hands and sings along
their vocal cords trying to hit tonal chords
cords of water connecting eyes to mouths shows
the congregation is plugged in
because the cords have been properly checked.

Sorry
I didn’t mean to be rude
or offensive
or to harass you
I know it’s not polite to stare
but just so you know
not everyone staring at you thinks you’re **** as ****
and if you must know
I wasn’t staring at you because you’re beautiful
I was staring because you reminded me of someone I once knew
who was **** as ****.

How do we fix this? What can we do?
The answer stands impatiently in front of humanity
echoing how each person must always become better
but then the question becomes
what is better?
Something learned along the way.

"From the depths
of the mirror,
a corpse gazed back at me.
The look in his eyes, as they stared
into mine, has never left me."

Closing the book I looked at the cover,
Night by Elie Wiesel. Averting my eyes
from the book to my teacher, she stares

at the class in profound silence, then she says,
"There's something very similar happening in America
today." I was shocked, I couldn't believe it took me until

middle school to hear about this. My ears perked up in morbid
curiosity as the other students nodded making me feel like a *******,
"Abortion." the teacher stated with lofty arrogance as I breathed a sigh of relief

encouraged by the banality of right wing indoctrination replacing revelation
of more senseless slaughter. I didn't watch Fox News, I didn't know I was
supposed to hate abortion and Dr. Tiller; that's where Elie Wiesel and

teacher come in. Elie Wiesel wrote a book that makes people want
to change the world, my teacher narrowed it down to the target
in her crosshairs. Tiller died a few years later, Wiesel died

several years after that. My old middle school teacher
is still alive using books of the dead to demonize the
living for demanding demonetizing democracy

until malleable minds are mangled
shifting their forming mentality
into one as narrow as hers.

Vultures draw circles in the sky
tracing the paths we run
concentric predatory perimeters
paralyze prey with peril
ping pong eyes pogo up and down
trying to detect fine print consignment.

Squirrels keep their head on a swivel
tightrope walking on telephone lines
or traveling along the branches in canopies
avoiding the ground with suspicion
of sentinel snakes slithering in the soil.

A contract is written in a newborn calf
standing up and beginning to graze
innately aware of wolf rescissions
and tornado trials.

Cephalopod ink spills on the page
tyrosinase blinds the opponent
suffocating in a dark cloud
while the octopus escapes
to grow into a Kraken form.

So eyes dart back and forth
reading back the record
of a jungle mentality
wandering high
to avoid predators below
and an ocean turning black.