The eyelids of god are always flipping burgers!

What does this picture mean to you?

Is this a vindication of blood-lust
or a properly celebrated holiday?

Is this man a shadow of his formal self?

Is this a mirror taking a picture of itself?

BRAZEN ARITHMETIC…

this writing on the wall
this syncopated second thought
this out-of-body full disclosure.
I have read between the lines
until I am blind, I have scoured
the text to vilify the sacred,
to make angels the default
button for destruction, but I can’t
break the code of the familiar,
the breath that catches,
the sustained silence, the coiled
look, I can’t find my way
out of here. I’ve written myself
into a corner.

A DAMNED AFFAIR

I will have nothing
to do with you, I expunge
you from the record. You
officially do not exist.
Pleased to meet you.
I see you come with your
own pre-commissioned
laugh track. Congratulations.
You’re one step ahead of me.
But I’ve already strangled
any potential blood donors,
so really, where does that
leave us?

I AM LIT…

by bourbon, by a back deck
to pace on in Brooklyn,
and by three candles
that survived the wind,
one of them guttering
in the Buddha’s plastic belly.

MARK

The black text has scorched its’ mark
and my brow folds closed like an ashen
Wednesday that never happened
and I am shunned by neighbors
and carny folk alike. I am left
to languish in moldering seaside resorts,
in penny arcades that have long since
run out of ammunition. I hide my eyes
from all that is not right before me.
To either side, shame builds a highway.

A PORNOGRAPHY OF ONE

There I stand, booze-soaked and blood-sodden,
wiping the brows of my betters and laying bets
on the weather, a fever dream of absolutes.
There I am, second-guessing myself
in a shotgun wedding of best intentions
and the slow, stuttering pause.
I am to love what a spear is
to the heart, I skip a beat,
deadened and transfixed,
I am the choir of silence,
I hold it in my fist, complete.