(Robert Rauschenberg, For Ferraro)



Sometime around 10am,


pink tanks





I was writing a story

for the paper,

exposing cutting-edge

tech weapons and

wars waged

against the unarmed

and the



It was an attempt to

break the

sound barrier to



and riots.


My memories and


have changed.


F-16’s still

quarry the

audio fade of

derelict soil.


I yield

to the melodic harps of

dying beings submerged within

the womb of consciousness

at first light.





and your medieval obsession

to break

what is, long since,






The Cat


(Hieronymus Bosch, 1450- 1516)


Part of the program

was to trigger and split

those wounded by rape

and abuse.


It is almost impossible to

not be affected by

such twisted symbolism.


The murder one of it is

that you will not want it

until you want it.


You will adjust

to not feel

this much pain.


Your mind does all it can

to protect you,

knowing that,

through each downpour

and over every bridge,

the soul cannot be destroyed

and so

you cannot ever lose who

you truly are.


You will never be those who are

trying to control and enslave you.


Strength and peace can be found within

the sanctity of growth symbolism

which helps to resist


and fade alters.


You will surface.


I felt sick today,

headachy and exhausted,


I managed to avoid

the cops’ and the puppets’

ventilation burn and

parable threats.


I watched my son play

with a transparent purple bat

in the garage.


I worked in the dark

trying to deconstruct the war.


I thought about calling you

but have no idea

who you really are.








By stealth,

the train in my living room

is melting and

my brother is being killed.


It was so humid the day

we visited the fighter wing.

I was on life support


God Bless America,

remembering our grandfather

serving in Alamogordo 

in the 50’s.


The constellation of Gemini

could be seen from the levee.



they exterminate

our people,


our origins,

as tornado sirens and

extra-low frequencies still blare

from the factory.


The bones of

the liberators

are now visible.




From “The Usual Suspects.”

Two weeks ago,

I saw the way drops of

water cut through stone, as I had been,

for nearly six months,

looking for a metaphor

to the meaning of life during a

particularly suffocating ennui.


I almost

risked it all for

a numb desperation

to surface.




In the cave and in the hollow,

the path led to death.


On my way out,

I had to touch the moss on

the rocks, all of it, I had to

feel, with my own hands,

the meaning of life, that which

is life,

is growth despite

cold static flow and

evaporating desert chords,

your ultra-low kill,

my yellowing breath,

my skeletal roots,

impossible and




(Robert Rauschenberg, Winner Spinner, 2000.)


A radiating sun resurrected

from dissipating planets,

implicated guns in the water,

wiping cum off my tits,

at the ready,

the most beautiful women

you’ve ever seen;

my soul belongs

to the broken ones.


Power is an illusion,

power is a blacklight rose,

and is temporary.


All the ways I have

pictured you dying,

waiting like the elevator man,

holding the gardens of your life like 

old, old compositions.


Over the bridge,

you almost convinced me that

no decent woman

thinks these kinds of thoughts.