fever dream

spent brass melting on a hot floor, pooling,
releasing twinkling music, the bang, the thud of fists,
the deathly screech of men minding their own,
the shots ripping through flesh to protect simple packages and
bombs dropping from on high, exploding
gallons of brown and black paint on beautiful cities, gallons of
red and blue and sickly gangrenous yellow,
all over the world, all over the world,
craters becoming as common as ponds,
bombshells repurposed for scrap-rigged staircases and still,
the gentle music of melted brass runs through the air
while old men dance their languid, sweeping dance,
hand in hand with eachother
going gently into a dark night and
urging us to follow their every step,
their every step.


she looks at you,
like a skillful matador stares at a bull or
like a bull stares at a clumsy matador,
eyes blazing in the cool air of an unfortunate dinner date location,
and she picks a flash of orange from the brown,
holds it like she’s signing her name on a death certificate,
and says
with a terrible sort of softness,
“Did you know it takes the same amount of force to bite
through a carrot as it does to bite through a finger?”
she drops the carrot back in the stew.

The Myth of Rest

The problem with rest is that there isn’t enough;
never the time to feel full, content, stable,
and ready to seek the work out, no,
only the allotted time to feel
the guilt of idleness, to feel
the gnawing of postponed tasks, to worry
that there is not enough time for rest and work,
work and rest,
and some voice says, “work must take precedence,
the swing of pick and ax is all to life,
the digging of this great empty space,
down, further, faster, deeper,
and if you work enough (or if
you inherited the empty pit of another)
perhaps you will dig clean through the crust,
the mantle, the obverse,
and be blinded
by the radiance of some unknown sun.”

Paradise in Cathode Rays

No more heroes, no more saints,
the names that linger on our lips
are weak and wretched, are worlds bought
at bargain, the price a soul; these profits sought
and secured in the name of  – none,
by men guided by – nothing of note,
merely to be greater,
to be richer,
to be known,
ah, to be loved and wealthy and proud!
And the stories the newsmen love to tell
are tales of a heaven,
that slips into hell.


To hell with them, whose hands sparked the flame
that on our sleepy hamlet fed. The blame,
the blood, the curse on their heads;  these  men
unlike men;  my path is their end.

Bring me the blade! Bring me the axe!
more heads I’ll decouple through swift-striking hacks
More blood! More glory! Less prayers left to plead,
Bring me the venison! Bring me the mead!

The reward of vengeance is vengeance, alone,
I do not seek penance. I will not atone.
And when I am slain, through hell I will surge
and redoubling my vengeance, I emerge.

The Nature Of Technique

These hands cannot use quill and ink,
nor carve a blade from sharp-beat flint;
So few among us can skin a cat
and yet we dream of our delinquent arts;
oh, if only, without our work,
our daily bustle and daily groan,
if only we could throw off this yoke
what lovely craft we’d make our own;
oh, if only,
if only

sick day (12/4/19)

Another day, another day,
soured by coffee, coughdrops, and
the wheeze, the whinge, the slimy lung,
the grit embedded in the throat,
the uneasy looks from strangers and
the finger-wagging of white coats.
Ah, surely, (a pause as liquid drips from my face),
this must be what love is like,
painlessly given,
slowly survived.