Finding My Death Easy and Soft

Tails on the cattle are
busy with insects, but
I saw happy wags and
love, bovine care, passion,

while sicking myself from
murdering a bird, the pain
glued to the radiators

in my stomach, and Harry,
he shook her, snapped her
neck and what choice

did I have, her last swallows
of universe, shouting me down
in heart stop time, as I may

not eat steak, as like
a vicious crow, I dive
back to my nest, waiting for

a shovel to end me.
Too, so soon, too.

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Once While Empty

Hearing insanity toiling

through the moving wall

that pulses in astonishment

though expresses no emotion.

All of this soupy mess is mine.

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All the Dirty Dishes

Birds fly into
concrete, but none
near my house,
and where does

this purple reality
get shot from,
this one which
orders me,

Do not write.

There is nothing
worthy in my palette
when I don’t
describe my dark

universes, and all
the dirty dishes
come back dirtier,
less shapely, less useful.

No more terrifying
hatred, sir? These dank
alleys where my chaotic
paths lead, I shall
not poison.

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Coming Back from the Cave Where the Big Bears Have Surrendered (for today, at least)

There are these short stints 
in my life when I feel rather okay. 

These are not at all common. 
When they come, I am a satisfied 
pig watching with a flat 
temperament the chaos that raises 
my boat. The water rises so high, 
the landmarks disappear 

but my fear remains repressed, for I 
have cases of Hershey’s Almond 
Chocolate bars, 36 in each case, and I feel 
myself spectating at the odd 
feeling of not being disappointed 
in myself for eating a whole case 
at a time, more often than not.

My last short stint started
last Wednesday, but now, it’s terrible,
my boat is sinking and I’ve stopped
eating the chocolate. No matter.
You cannot make me fearful,
for I am writing.

There are these long stints
in my life when the darkness

permeates everything. The last one
ended last Wednesday, but it lasted
so long, nine weeks, and there were
two days when I was reaching down,
clutching my hair in desperation, 
but calmly embracing suicide’s horns.

The last long stint was overwhelming
and stifling because I felt as though
I couldn’t write a word. Writing is a vent
and I want it back soon.


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Just Like My Mother

Slight changes in the breeze
coming from the North, wood
block sound chunks from

shutters. It was the
anticipation, breath stolen
by fear and if it wasn’t

next time, it would
be soon, but we could
never hold steady

waiting for any good.
Some days, the love
pierced through her

Detroit armor, her
French denial, some
days, she loved her

own children having
sprayed and cooled the
coals covering her middle.

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The Decent Man, Part I

The black on the coal grey screen said 9:08, confirming ugliness in the truth of being. Failure drips down, seemingly from hair follicles that have tremors. She was smiling in the room with glass corner until she glanced at him as he sailed the hallway, and he knew the screen on the phone on his desk would show bad news. He had been hoping for 9:03 or 9:04 after seeing her violent eyes. As it is, there is no defense. He had promised her that he would arrive by 9 AM each morning, agreeing that this was entirely reasonable. He failed, failed, failed, and today there was clarity to the failure. Even the most simple parts of life squeeze and expand the pulpy mind of consistent failure. This is not a decent man, so it may be a terrible way to start our fictional dig into psychological essay about what it is to be a decent man. We will find out despite his failures.

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Lost On, Lost In The Highway

Today, my journey was the usual,
the daily, each day heading for home,
finding home hidden from me seeing

vegetable stands in bombed buildings,
watching plywood work it’s way
to shelter me from the innocent,

locking me away with crooked beasts
who have steel pipes pulled from
the structure of nothingness, ready to

beat me thoroughly, and I stare 
at the vacant parking lot with black 
sewage toppings, knowing there is no 

warmth, knowing it’s no home of mine 
but wanting to be flattened under the
sewage and the two smashed eggs.

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Strung Up

Motor-mouth machine, what part
of me believes, hopes for happiness
or peace? From mean to easy, neither

works, for punk am I, from the long, wavy
chords in Beethoven’s Number Two, his
weakest, but so powerful, stretching to dive

into a bar of the music and live there,
hide there, never come back, but I am being
a restless dog, first shaking, moving almost

a century to Mahler Number Tnree, and it’s 
here that self-pity reigns and crashes in on the
senses, the false triumphs, dogging my ugly

lack of talent, forcing me back to now 
where nothing can be good, not even
my favorite music. I whisper desires to drop 

dead and slink away as odorless gas, with 
or without music. Mahler, buddy, I am
gone and can’t come back. Scream, Mahler!

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The Bears Are Winning

Crawling bears wade
gracefully, almost inside

the fused pieces of blacktop
as I ask god, my neck like

a garden hose lost in thin,
light clouds which hide

the screaming, fierce opposition,
the devil, please god, intercede

for me, help me discover
my own center, don’t allow

them to drag me to my cubicle,
as terrible music stings my ears,

traffic from neighbors pauses, and my
dusty black car hops on the backs

of the bears, as I feel already roasted,
yes, toasted, unable to jump out,

unable to find my exit.

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Crawling Between the Light Blue Electrical Sockets

Whisps of gray poison slink

proudly, quietly around the gray

cubicles, melting marble chords of

self-esteem, directing my crouching 

character until like the innocent

charcoal translucent in the waves

of masterful ocean, I am

slammed against the fearless,

tarnished pavement of the walls

of an empty closet and the boss

shreds me, rolls the wads of me down

a chute to a table full of emotional

indigestion, across from an old, rotted,

scrunchy man, mean man, impolite, mouth

sealed as he is served by hippies, and I 

think it’s okay, no bitterness, he’ll die very

soon, and wilting, I know it is true

for all of us.

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