Why don'tcha do me right...

The following is my first experimentation with plunderverse, and even then, it's not true plunderverse.


an illusion of pain
twirls around my head
like cartoon birds singing
a familiar parable

thisbodythisbodythisbodythisbody

a holy gift to be unwrapped
weaving between my cut-throat breaths –
please keep breathing, please...

thisbodythisbodythisbodythisbody

holding me like an ocean does an island
celebrate this new experience
alive; mortality; eternal; an illusion.

thisbodythisbodythisbodythisbody

Before I sputter out...

her words scratch
to satisfy my eczema-plagued
soul with explanations
that, yeah,
we all sleep
with a little night light
for years longer than we should.

we've all got parasites
that feed in the dark,
rustle and shake away
at the resolve we had when the sun
stood us up on our shadow-base

the truth is, her and I
have very different night lights.
Hers burns red across the white
and mine burns black
at the end of this pen
searing my thoughts into this poor page.

The ghost veins gossip.

I've two poems forthcoming in Durable Goods Magazine. They'll be in issue 55. I will have a few copies of this issue which I plan to spread around to a few local places so that it can be enjoyed. I'll also probably get around to doing readings involving the pieces within the issue sometime in the next month or so.

I love even just the concept of this magazine and I encourage anyone reading this to go check it out. Subscribe. Understand that print will only die if you let it and that this computer screen you're staring at means fuck all in the world.

When you die, do you want to leave something behind? I do: A pantload of words. In this digital age, how many people are really going to have their works endure? If it's on a website, a hard drive, a disc, or any other digital media, I will bet my bottom dollar that it disappears. But print... it's something you can hold, smell, FEEL. Don't let that die.

Support small press. Support the PRINTED word.

I watch my world through a glass.

words begin to tumble
slow as the snowflakes
that land on my nose
so that I can blame my red complexion
on the cold.

The shallow drowned lose less than we.

I.
sometimes the flames tickle
the soles of my feet – the follicles in my skin jump
like fish out of water to find the sun
because the calm dark deep called home
is a prison where I lay on the stretching table.

II.
grade teacher said to always capitalize “I”
because I’m special and worthy of respect.
but the more my Inner-demons stretch my lImbs
the less InclIned…
i am to believe her.

III.
try to breathe on the city docks –
the waves carry the sounds of screams
from home to my emancipated ears.

That ship left and I wasn't on her...

(all of this)
I've thought of her ever since
(tears in the rain)
because that's how the brain works
(all of this)
and she probably thinks of me
(a breath in the wind)
like a breakfast cereal
(all of this)
that she never had
(peace in the protest)
but heard good things about

Ja, das ist mein teil...

displayed her breasts like hanging game
fresh from the woods, arrows extracted,
but nobody could disagree that they'd be delicious
over a roaring grill with the right sauce

I misted her with my eyes
and, glazed, [du riechst so gut];
she smelled like fields of honey bees.
I'd wear her pelt with drooling face –
rabid with imagination's force-fact-fiction

circle like a vulture above a lost desert-tourist