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.