one way out

in the dregs
at the bottom
of every teacup

she said
--only artists and mystics,
--need not be bashful

But in their festival of foreplay
even the most unique and most holy
find only one way out.

bodies drawn apart by whispers

don't remember what they lost

flat-earthers

stories are empty,
rage is ineffectual,
identity unstable.

what’s ugly?
what’s pretty?
what’s empty?

...oh, but how they move,
like the earth was flat,
and life was forever.

counterfeit

i do not matter

your skirt

your slave

the ancient part of me was young

basecamp

this igloo was once a paradise

isolation kept in the warmth

until the glacier shattered
and filaments of ice infected everything

now this hearth is cold as a ghost

now only the echo of movement remains

maybe

i am the grinning keeper of frozen graves

maybe

if we lay together against the frost

we could survive by the heat of our hearts alone

surprised to find

wisdom under a pillow,

like a discarded tooth;

unwavering love

and fragile truth.

...

blanket of sunsets, moonlit owls, and strawberry waffles.

proof that flowers can bloom in a barren world.

mulch

statues of Buddha
break into rock candy
under the hammer

silver & glass

each thought is paint on a mirror

the dead have all the music
but vastness is nothing to them.

i'm happy to die small,
when such vastness awaits.

you'll know you're in hell
when beauty becomes poison
and nothing but death
can fill your empty breath

hell is Lucifer's
caricature of death
where life is broken
but never transformed

orgy

How many nihilists does it take to screw in a burnt-out light-bulb?

Nostalgiferatu

i saw
the quiet
ineffable
beckoning of life

but like a child
could not let go
of one fantastic memory
one incomparable sunrise

everything after
is yesterday's rainbow

tombstone

the hope of youth has died

replaced by a stranger

by a whisper

the voice of another world

grinding me to dust

my voice, a vacuum

the coolness of my fall

the falling of leaves

keeps me from sleep
and the inevitable rest

Joshua Tree

In this faraway place

I suddenly [can't] find myself

I [can't] remember the sunrise

The ascending rocks of Joshua Tree

Picasso’s first word was the same as his last.

wormheart

rain falls

corrugated gutters

our breath held too long

iron and argon fill our lungs

ear to the ground—

     air

    moves the

         leaves—
      choked

—like an earthworm

  in the sun.

hell is heaven lost

Tenebris Avem

her drear jon

has grown so very strong

Ora pro nobis, nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc et in hora, in hora mortis nostrae.
Ora pro nobis, nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc et in hora, in hora mortis nostrae.
Ora pro nobis, nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc et in hora, in hora mortis nostrae.

her rosary was a noose
resurrection happens on Fridays

Cast (as Teacher)

Is she helping you walk

when your leg's asleep?

Or, is she the cast

on a phantom limb?

When you know a lie is true,

It's easy to shape dull minds.

Conversation with an Empty Chair.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa waa wha waa?

ME. I'm 17. Doesn't your sheet tell you that?

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa waa whawha waa mwawhawaawaa wwa hawhawaawa wawhawaawah wamamhaa?

ME. That's what they tell me.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa whawha whaa whaa wahawaawah?

ME. I yawn a lot. I'm dizzy, sometimes.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa whawha wamamhaa wa wama-mhaa?

ME. Yes, it's almost constant.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa wahwa whaa wahwa mwa wha'a whaa whaa?

ME. There are highs. There are highs, but they don't last, and they make the lows worse.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa wamamhaa whawha?

ME. No.

EMPTY CHAIR. Wahawaawah mwa whaa mwa?

ME. I'd rather not talk about it.

EMPTY CHAIR. Wa wahwa wamamhaa wha'a whaa wa whaa wahwa?

ME. No. Not really.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa wahwa mwa whaa whaa.

ME. Yes.

EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa mwa wahwa mwa whaa whaa?

ME. Look, if you don't ask me a real question, I'm going to puke.

EMPTY CHAIR. wamamhaa, wa mwa wa mwa wahwa mwa wahwa wa mwawhawaaw?

ME. Why I am depressed? Birds and butterflies.

EMPTY CHAIR. Whawha?

ME. B-I-R-D-S AND B-U-T-T-E-R-F-L-I-E-S. Did you know, maybe a hundred years ago, passenger pigeons would flock in the billions, from sea to sea. They would blot out the sky. But to us, they were just meat. And we couldn't stop killing them until they were dead. The whole species. Dead. And butterflies—I don't want to talk about it with you—the whole world is dying.

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. My father died and became a tree and he doesn't talk to me anymore. I don't know what to do when someone you love makes you their toy. My mother is a terrible cook. We eat what we should burn and burn what we should eat. She wants me to save her. I can't even save myself.

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. ...And always, there's this hum on the other side of everything, this dark whisper that crawls in through the gaps. Something is watching me all the time. I can't tell if it's God or something darker. I just want it to STOP! Whatever it is, it's got me, and it's pulling me down. It's killing me and I can't breathe!

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. You asked me about coping skills? I've had all of coping I can stand. I don't want to cope. I want it to STOP! Or I'll stop it myself.

EMPTY CHAIR. . . .

ME. Why are you looking at me like that? It's a fucking metaphor, OK? Ask me a real question! And stop looking down at your notepad when you can't remember my name!

blue ice

your youthful aging face,
has only enough room --
     to sing our lament;

a spacious rite to all
     that came before --

our archipelligo, that bears all assault
  whispers in pristine silence --

we inhabit our melting glacier,
and find peace in death.

psychotic amphibians

tThis little
      tadpole,
            chokes
on it's first
      murder.
Tthis frog,
    finds a hard way
        to stop  killing.