Wednesday, December 5, 2012

The Ritual

When the Saviour sleeps,
He does not dream.
He is not disturbed by
the whispered prayers of the faithful,
nor by the screams of the weak:
Our Father who aren’t in Heaven
hollowed be Thy name.

Please be seated and
receive the sacrament in paper cups:
black blood shed for you and
mixed with sugar and cream.
Ashes to ashtrays, fingers to lips;
Christ is a cancer in some unlucky lungs.

We accept comparisons between humans and sheep,
lying at the feet of a giant machine.
We are birds, frantically lining our nests
with expensive bits of string and
slivers of semi-precious stone;
tinfoil and tourniquets plugged into
plaster walls.

The Doves died
when they too swallowed the silver coins.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Industry Integrity Progress

i recorded this video several months ago.
it has not been edited, but i don't think it really needs it.
i hope you like it.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Monday, April 9, 2012


Coming Soon -
new posts, new lay out, new poems.
Stay Tuned.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Bouquet Garni

Over-easy, hash browns crisp, coffee:
bitter black liquid in ceramic.
A tall glass of concentrated California,
one part bourbon, the other orangeade -
her fried eggs, my diluted drink,
a culinary serenade.

i love you and i use a mortar and pestle on
whole black peppercorns and rock sea salt.
My heart a tightly tied bouquet garni,
(parsley, thyme, oregano);
my skin as white as dinner plates
my blood a red Bordeaux.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011


If a blue sky reflects Earth's abundance of ocean,
does a red one reflect the saccharine fires of hell?
A masked man's mustache bars his ability to tell.
Obelisks atop elephants with spindly arachnid legs,
are always spinning webs of lies to trap
small humans who rely on their maps.

Monday, September 5, 2011


Maudlin mannequins in a shop window
stare out, faceless and waiting for
nothing. i watch them as often as i
memorize the backs of my hands
or twist my hair into knots.

A photograph of my heart
exposes the past consequences of
cruel misery and soaring failures.
At 02:00 i only seek to find
an outlet to hold a charge for my
rusty alarm clock.
At dawn, i will break your arms
and run. A warm place is nothing
to keep this stray dog domestic.

Without crutches, without stilts,
my steps may fall erratic on frozen pavement.
Singing and screaming are no different
under the black ink and blotchy white stars
of prairie midnight.

A whispered kiss goodnight between jealous faces and
one cold hand extended to another.
As the lightning and the wind intertwine
sensually in the sky,
you and i recite all the lines we have ever read;
i will never be the drunkard in your bed.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

My Own Lazarus

Red hair, white skin -
a woman's malcontent
is a visible tattoo for
the surgeon to remove.
Sylvia is smiling;
are you terrified?

Life is a switch on the wall.
Nine tries to get it right,
nine people to find her
barely breathing and
covered in worms and leeches -
gripping Death's white knuckled hand.

Sunday, August 7, 2011


From the crumbling ceiling, a bare lightbulb
hangs with its chain-link partner, just within reach
so you can turn on the light and see yourself
in the harsh, low rent reality of
the incandescent light.

A dark night in July paints a portrait
of day number forty-seven of
the Hundred Day Cough; the
hundred generations of twisted fingers plucking
and snapping rusty guitar strings.

Though our lives of poverty and addictions
will likely result in the lukewarm infinity of existentialist hell,
no apologies will be made. The stumbling beat
of ten thousand broken hearts in fractured cages
will forever go unaccounted for; forever

We are the walking wounded.
We starve. We wander listless
and floating in our fevers, in
a trance. Our lips push out sounds
that no human ear recognizes.
We dull our pain with treachery;
we hang at dawn for treason.

When the Brotherhood of sinners
finally fall silent in our graves,
the children will go hungry.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


The man upstairs is sleeping.
Saturday morning,
the sun is not up, but my keys
are opening the door.
Three machines begin a slow drip of coffee
and the smell rises upward,
along with the soft, sad music
of a hangover and the need to work.

Perhaps the man will take my misery
from me and turn it upon himself.
Absolve me, stranger,
i am ready to start anew.