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.



(Robert Rauschenberg, Overdrive)


They sent me off

with the lunatics.


The shattering laughter implied

I would be assigned a new identity



Once they broke into

my dreams

I heard the bell

sound black.


There were already several inches

of rain.


Do not tell me

you don’t hear it.

Do not,

for one second,

lead me to that place you name


and then convince me

of silence,


help me, God I’m dying,

down here upon the shore,

I can’t think or feel anything


That wasn’t supposed to be heard.

It wasn’t supposed to be know that

these were the words I prayed

even after I stopped praying.


There is nothing

where there once

were gallant and geological features

I could piece or stack,

or even chisel away at,

if that’s what I felt

I needed to do.


But now I am empty.

I am changed.


The gravel, the barbs,

the pooling rains

that settle within that space

drown in the yellow waves

of the sea.





Murder One

Photo from pinterest.com


Intentional, goes

without saying but for

speeding blind bull’s


cautionary lies

like swearing revenge on the

last human being,


her cyclical graves.

Do no disturb the mother,

there was weeping here,



cold exorcism burning

long lost burials.