Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Cum Oven

Children eat fried pies and

come quickly when the boys call

Period stained panties

fresh from the ceramic cracked

Take out the pies, yes

They’re not ready

but still edible to young palettes.

Sugar takes cellular form

into pancreas


and unsightly neck freckles.

I’m a liver and two ovaries.

One head, and a hat,

a golden brown baseball bat.


I am the fur growing just slightly beneath your chin

that hangnail betting on an open floor

that kitty in the window that keeps crying but he sniffles

Just give me a place to rest my head.

I’m strings of aluminum accentuating each minor breath.

Sit back. Down.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

You spelled than wrong

Oral fenced skirt scarf caress

her one more dwell hour

The little lolita flips the paper pieces into

An oh not mouthing an e but

Denouncing said existence this way

She began at the nursing home today

right after high school let out

and her nail bits fell off

Jade still chews them with such brute that

her black pencil eyes swoop down

and chisel neat slots into her wrist

with pink pen

hard to twist around in a wheelchair when

internet clowns slide through the spaces

paralyze her at 13 years

she’s the new flat facade this side

of 2 east just hours

escaped on a ballpoint pen

her face was found swiftly after

planted on a keyboard stuck on Y

several pages in, almost the word allotment

beginning with blue flash puncture here:

www dot

We all know you now that your papers hit the floor

Friday, April 8, 2011

Cervical Drip

She’s been there thirty some years

playing with skin fusions.

Death barer,

you have no idea.

There’s a dust bowl in your belly

Swirling around your 43 visits to the nurse

One nurse. Small town.

I don’t blame you, baby, I don’t blame you

I’d be with you now if it weren’t for forceps.

Three day cap on tardiness

You’re coming out whether you’re fresh or filthy.

Babies rest for eight? Nine?

I was stained with struck marks for days-

medical dunce cap.

Bloody sludge pockets filled with scabbed scabs

Food service arrives

but you ain’t takin’ the plate.

Instead some eggs drop down

onto the pedestal with finger tips slurring through

that fall quite fast when decay begins

Decay of what just began

Fixed legs that become one

7 ounces a piece

2 gallons of pain per square inch

until the knife works itself in

and carves out the torn matter

3 lbs. 6 oz. Mummy cries now.

Saturday, April 2, 2011


There’s an olive in the center.

Don’t stare at it- we will hear you.

Just bags of skin that walk around smiling, really;

feasting on fingernail tips and split-end frizzles,

feet tapping until noon

when the mailman comes, delivering bills

and two-cent checks.

I could sit here mumbling all day to

cigarette butt flem rolling over and over

across the table.

L. My name is L. My ass is plastered to this Lazy Boy

because I won’t answer to the mail man


A woman put me here 3 years ago.

She thought my skin went nicely

with the dollar store shower curtain.

Now I rest upon a tower of bed sores

and decaying fecal matter.

I still look good with the curtain. It’s rusted over now.

I’m still here, but not long.

The police came at 8:16 PM Saturday evening.

They say the stench was so

that grown men cried like infants.

He was there, seemingly alert

but his nails were baby blue

and his hair frayed to death.

He was 43.

The paramedics wrapped him in an old shower curtain

and carried him and the chair through a wall cut-out.

He looked like a cradled child, still fused with his mother.

His neighbors said they had no idea.

The olive explodes

and his person splits in two.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Cannibal Buffet

Springed heel

to get the deed done

(Sicari shrine of nem).

Nemi will eat Tyler

then Chris to Rifkin.

(Laureate, no, no food).

Your name isn’t image,

but the buffet stands too close.

You have to grab it.

Shy line

to the door

(Lead the way, Gabrielle).

Unit by unit threads

pump the tongues

of waiting colleagues.


you’re next.)





The words say over and over but poetically dead so I breathe

Breathe to the fantasy of not holding it in

not crying when let in

not climbing my way out

slow pedals of that ladder

I won’t see for it

It is what I told you yesterday that I’m in love


Love of love

Quick distance for cancellation

Covered in cans

You can see through but

That is

That is all.

That is all I can give

but fuck I’ve got a lot of perception

Just ask the man who lives up there

He sees it but creates it

Say hello I’m the jester

speaking puppet words

This poem isn’t written by me

It’s him.

Wake up.

Slurred screaming eats away at the bed

Sheets smother face in pity

{Don’t leave; you’re here to die.}

I won’t see for it.