by Poetry

on certain nights
when there was no hope
& all the radio stations played
Bela Lugosi’s Dead
on repeat
stretched out the chained drums
before the bats
I was fortunate enough to witness her
moonlight overwhelming as blues & shadows
rose across her skin or she descends
into it all willingly; plunging
like a cormorant in pursuit of her consumption until
I couldn’t tell
where the wet feathers ended
and her flesh began

she drowned so often in my arms
& the passenger seat of my car
& there were dreams of ancient
islands in her coughing; until she retched
and spat entire histories upon me

I learned all my mythologies from watching her
all the stories I would use
to convince her I was in her heart
while she considered life & death
& how much of the night
she could take into herself 
before she was overwhelmed
& released into bubbles
to break the still water
& disguise the murderous self-empire
beneath the surface

now some nights, I sit
by the water’s edge
and wait for the great bird
to erupt again,
joyous & triumphant
with a salmon-trout or some
other thing
caught in her lips

Free eBooks

modern poetry

Socialists And Turtles (Dream 12)

Savio’s screaming down in the salt lake dust mines of education; Savio’s screamin’ about broken bodies on broken slave-drivin’ wheels/ burn with embarrassment like it were lickin’ at yer heels/ an’ Jesus moans that if the machine weren’t so fuckin’ odious then he...

Swearing in Italian

I spend my days wrestling with angels,
gripping and grappling…

Where’s the A, huh?

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?
Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-

La Fleur est Belle

the flower fought growth
I don’t know if you knew that
reluctant to let some mother enter it’s body
terrified of god taking Root amongst the leaves
turned its face from the sun
swore to photosynthesise in the dark