Impetus

too many teeth
crowding
words crowding
mouthful of spit

mechanical clockwork repetition
in-FLECK-shun
in-fleck-SHUN?

has a puppet
silent
similar in movement
begging
kiss me
kiss me
denied

in private
secret exchanges
middle finger tickling
brown puckered
secret

host swells
EGO
inflated nothing

Untitled

You're standing outside, watching. Her silhouette glides between the two windows, opening and closing the curtains and blinds. The lights switch on and off without pattern, alternately fast and slow. You can't tell if she's naked or clothed, smiling or stoic--she must be smiling; this is torture. It's impossible to know when she'll stop, if she'll stop. But you wait.

I hate Kevin Bacon

Roses are red
violets are blue
Fuck you
I hate Kevin Bacon


(by popular demand)

Breastfeeder

Two men are led to a prominent, well-lit

table underneath an elk’s head.

One carries an impossibly large

infant three times normal size.

I know him. It’s not his child. He

drops it on the thick, lacquered

table with a thud. Flash to

the man now shirtless, picking

up the baby, cradling it to his chest.

It balances on his corpulent belly,

squirming and gurgling close to

his breast. It’s suckling. Like

a tea kettle’s whistle, I

explode. I pound my fist,

rattling dishes and glass.

Untitled

sticky thickness
sluggish
clogged veins like molasses
blood candied

I burden, I drag
lethargic prison-walk
hardened by the hot red sun
trying to expel molecules

dream land
cotton clouds
slick candy roads
marbled palaces

glassy watchface patterns

in ab laetia
cum urbis paucis dat
subito curo
et numquam viro ad
tace puer tui

blind gesture
closer lion’s den
less,
decomposed

grids gritting
bleating cleanse
wrought defense

agent curtain
lonely swing

dough tree door
horse’s shadow
towards

the guilt pig
the pony hold
the peacock

Glendalien Prophecy

Catapulted from a great distance, the stuffed yellow bear flails his short limbs over the dense forest canopy. He lands through a clearing in the trees and continues to skid through the sediment, unsettling the dirt and detritus, leaving a trail with his stubby yellow feet. He stops just before the edge, where I am standing. "I'm at the edge of a glen," he says. "This must be Glendale 1907," I reply. We stare down at the river. Reflections of a large patchwork of farmland flow by, slipping away forever.