doom mandala

horizon lights
dog movement
we hear a laugh
the earth's mouth
inviting us
to be dust
doom mandala
fucking hippies
jesus noman
is not my dad

shadows to end me

cold coloured sparks scream on my skin
an ocean, a literal fucking ocean
has broken its jaw to invert around our world
how did god feel when you did this?
there are, of course, shadows to end me here
spooky blurs birthed from my paranoia
internal joke, the pull of the boat
i try not to look like a seal while i swim

bruise flag

a bruise hoists its flag
like a shitty tattered spectre
flying under my skin
my limb, my leg - rotten!
i open that drawer
with the suppleness of an accordion
to find my flesh as feared
mingled with white sediments:
all the death i carry around.


discrete dogways
with soft knives

tiny dangers

arch on, mongrel:
crotch the poles-
this city woken
stirs your mine,
your opal nature.

our amples are rotten
so i grab a snake-
the groundness
of all the right faces
blares back at me.

squinting my eyes
makes tiny dangers
that dance like wails:
there are glasses
breaking the sidewalk.

e easy cummings

e easy cummings
doggedly noses
between my thighs-
he wants to paint his portrait down there.

boy in a field
of mirrors: his penis loops.
blind and painting- riding
on sighs, eating sighs.

makes nice rhymes
about romantic custodianship,
fisting the twilight-
made a car of me dammit.

puddle leagues

it is raining under my skin.
that old trick unbottled-
the heart is a gutter,
the heart is ripple specked
and grey-brown-blue.
the heart is not an ocean.
as a child i poked with sticks
this imagined sea,
tossed petals & leaves to sail
puddle leagues bravely.

the sky is a hole

the rain tap taps on the skylight.
i look up and the sky is a hole.
that crack in my mind again,
letting all the law leak out.

holy clapper

the hand is stringed to god & the spirit:
holy clapper, holder of erosions,
photographing the sunset.
wounded sorbet stalks the horizon,
littering the mountaintops with its deathcry.

comet & volcano

god is building dioramas of my misery.
god slings bees into my hair
and so I cut off all my hair.

I am bald as a comet rocketing towards my crater
which is also a cradle and also a grave.
rocketing alone to the grave.

I am a comet and you are a volcano:
the earth is your wall.
but really we are nothing at all
(than a crow passing, a gasp, etc)
and our nothing is a song in everything.

old touches

(shake your hands
the are covered in dirty water
they are covered in old touches)


exhausts on my brain; drunken like june winds
control z—get me out of here


morning finds the thick of the dream:
a honey-mound.
the sun rises
in my gut-

(alone with gods)

(rivers of no eye)

my soul is blooming?


all the streets so fillable:
i salivate.

dog-wise joy
hangs like a curtain
on my personality.

jesus h. christ

men walk off their boats
like jesus holy christ
onto the lake’s wiggling surface.

maybe heaven will be like
the videos of lapping water
they play in the dentist’s office.


my trauma has a twist cap.
no inspirational quote can
regrow the bald patch on my soul.

fences that are laws
like gravity and death
circle your life.

i grind my eyes into the street
which is a metaphor for time
in some old country song
that I once dreamed or
never wrote.

instead i offered you
milk and spit
and you offered me
a shore to break myself upon.

negotiating option c (this object is a poem)



contemplate this debris:
time fragments like snakes mating
it is madness and
without god.
birds sing away moments like rivers-
their bones vibrate at my bones
and the crow knows my meat is like his.
revolutions follow not an 0 nor an 8
but something more sinister
like a smile.

blue shape

the neutered morning rises likes oil
from a place between my eyes.
a no wells, its timbre like tin
as the teeth of the sun break the horizon.

morning is a blue shape that burns off my dream,
summons my body like
a snake tossed back in a molted skin.

I had been dreaming of trees with heart disease,
so we had to amputate the trees.

there is another somewhere deeply screaming.

your dog

onion breaker curses
in metallic sing-song.
fronds, fronds wildly
all purple and splintered.
i catch them in my room,
i catch them on my skin,
seeds you spat.
robes flap
on winded meats.
it pleases with a shallow art
but your dog’s gotta get beat.


my face is an ocean
windfucked and
as thrill as you think.
we re-write mysteries to fence us,
honour and confine our ghosts.
i have grafted a dahlia onto my soul
but it molded
and the crisp leaves are vacating.
i need a vacation, it’s
taking a toll on my hair
to be a self for anyone.

summer heat/grandpa’s teeth

summer is spilling out
from the hems of the sky.
it is obscene but god allows it.
heat straddles the peak
between today and all yesterdays.
makes a bone of monuments,
a hill the same. dusts
laugh with the teeth
of my grandfathers.

wigs on the night

i leapt marble like laughter
i watched smoke dance wigs on the night
i drank a forest in my marrow
i felt a smile skate over my spine
i wished until all the lights came on
i caught unguarded songs in the green
i noticed a tree quiver furtively
i stared at the instruments of trust
i bled molasses to see the sun set
i blessed an avenue by my procession
i let my echoes lose my name

moth in your hat

i skirt an imprecise margin
a searched groping
caught in the throat
caught in the thought
with a cough’s interuption

maybe a longing is cruel
maybe my desires are a moth in your hat
i net your considerations with urgency
you who are a shapeshifter
sometimes stranger
carving into the cartilage of my dance

stomach on a pole

stirring up the bottom of the room with
milky eyes, stuck on the underside of a word
grazing behind a cranial dip
birds with fingers, faceless mothers-
it all puts your stomach on a pole, no?

these gaps are grating
my slices make sand of a finger
(fixation formed and the home unfinished)
three turns to the chamber you’re searching
serpents laughing as they invert

a lick of morning

a lick of morning
dribbled out
horizon exhausts