the world is broken and bleeding and from a crack in the ground they come, an army of little red men wearing little black suits with little red ties, smoking and laughing, shaking hands, they scale the shear wall of my back with fish hooks and ephemeral ropes of hair, their cloven hooves leave little…

the paper read words bled black ink news the same shit everyday, smearing on your fingers the harsh reek of some ordinary nothing, burning nations and burning dollars and each and every a sore moment, a hangover, this, then, is that and this again is this, a waste of words and love and hate and…

i have become accustomed to a sharp pain in my jaw and in my neck that creeps in whenever i smoke and i know it is death or some idiot cousin of attempting to gain residency. my question is now where did these little words go, where have they gone on to that they are…

the words have gone on ahead in to that blurring maelstrom and what remains is insufficient to consider oneself a master at anything; there is only mediocrity and it has become the form to represent all forms, a nerve-ending that writhes in hydrogen winds existing in a sort of non-strata just beyond the edge of…

walking the worn gray steps of countless sad bastards, parking fees ahead and the mingling of other wasted lives, indigents, clutching to words like prayer and hope and will, false prophets each and every haunting the narrow shit-smell corridors, reek of death and dying, ultimate sadness. outside among the birdshit and homeless clouds of smoke…

the light gone, dreams i’ve dreamt return from their quiet corners like lost things in the early pause of reasoning things out. your smile is rain in this arid climate and you have gone back to conduct again with your orchestral hands symphonies in my heart. so quiet in your absence the calm is paralytic,…

a cycle of inadequacy, checking the spaces between what is and what it should be, lining up all my thoughts and knocking them over like a game with no purpose other than the act of, a spectacle for others to pass over as i sit slackjawed and bleary eyed watching nothing happen before me, no…

the wine burns the barren pan of my empty gut like a lavaflow and i draw pull after pull from a cigarette and my soul is heavy. i lie in bed naked drifting back and forth the locales of inner deep and my mind stretches thin and my skin is cold, the air is plagued…

it is everywhere. where the heart should recoil instead it expands, fluttering like wings and what the mind should reject it then embraces, wrapping ephemeral arms around this strange node of coital knuckle. an encyclopedia of father issues, volume after volume the outcome is the same these fiends on bent knees sucking for all the…

wine with ice and medication like breath from the ocean, the wave climbs until no sun can be derived, only the pale shadow of its preamble, the slow embrace, a deep blue streak in the sky. arrested by a synaptic shower, born in this here and this now where these chalk melodies are common as…