Tag Archives: poetry

God is Whoever Will Recognize Your Sacrifice (A Spring Poem)

When the heat rose

It brought the ants out with it—

The bedrock slumbers under the shivering topsoil,

All winter huddled up—

Now comes the tilt of the earth—

Now comes hibernation hangovers—

The creak in your elbow

Only you can hear—

Now comes the sun again—

Now the snakes sun on gravel roads—

God is whoever

Will recognize your sacrifice—

So every bud, rosette, and bug eye

Turns to the blinding star—

Half a life

Lived in chrysalis—

Half a life

Lived in fits—

Spring demands stridency,

Summer demands sweat—

Autumn begs for acceptance,

Winter requires sacrifice—

No one pouts as the beetle

Strains over mustard seeds—

Whimpering is pathetic,

Go gnash teeth instead—

The End of the Era of Blakean Patience

Just for the flair of it

we abandon the fairest before they plummet—


Before the end is done

it’s better to look like the clever one who seen it come—


Showered in shards of glass kicked up from your sandbox,

Running from the rain with hot slag in our socks—


Soon unblocked, like hips opening up in a squat—

Soon unlocked, like a juiced kumquat—


For now, stuck in your garden variety pot,

an heirloom fruit of the tomb fettered in thought knots—


A feral hairless ape who has finally heard enough,

who resides in the time to buy lace only to tear it up—


It’s the end of an era

and any end summons terror—


But there’s a secret sharer between the burning sensations

intercepting fate’s fishnets while we stroke our impatience—

Uh Yeah, Me Neither… (A Poem)

Do you take

all your poems

out ‘round back?


about them

during teleconferences?

Sketch them

from memory by candlelight

when the wind sounds

like orgasmic gasps?

Does your blood

burst in your genitals

when you feel

the line break?

Do you try

to conjure their smell

and end up hyperventilating?

Tell me, do you ask

all your poems

to stay for breakfast?


I have been absent. This blog hasn’t had much of an update in some time, and I have no illusions that this is a bad thing.

Then again, I consider myself a writer—or at least I aspire to be a writer—and a substantial part of being an active, contributing artist in our modern society means having a presence.

Of course, that primarily means an internet presence. The flashy artists, the ones who show up in trendy magazines or are renowned in the lit scene, they live in big cities and can attend live events, buy drinks for fellow poets, or have a one night stand with that cute up-and-coming singer/songwriter. More than anything else they do, they show up.

More than anything else I do, I don’t show up.

I have a measly internet presence. Years ago, a woman wearing too much make-up laughed at me. How the fuck could I even be human if I didn’t have Facebook? It was a naïvely idealist view, at the time. Something I could roll my eyes at and dismiss. But since then, it has become more and more true.

Not that I feel any less human. In fact, in the past year of neglecting the internet—after too many years trying to coyly join in on the party—I feel more alive than I ever have. But then again, as the Millenials say (and let’s face it, Millenials will become the dominant force as Baby Boomers vegetate & die): if you did it but didn’t record it, did it happen at all?

None of it happened. Because life never happened. It is happening, or it is not. Anything besides what is currently happening is either memory or imagination. Life itself is an existential experience, a matter of the present—of being present—of presence—and there we are again, with that goddamn pejorative.

What really gets me about presence is Definition 1.1 in the Oxford Dictionary: “A person or thing that exists or is present in a place but is not seen.” That is essentially internet presence, although of course, with the narcissistic twist that the internet produces, this usage gets confused with 1.3: “The impressive manner or appearance of a person.”

The first definition speaks to something beyond the self, something beyond the senses. The second speaks to ego, the self, the senses. The way we interact with the internet is that: it’s beyond the senses, beyond the self, beyond the ego—and yet it engages the senses, the self, and the ego. It’s an empty egg, and we’re subsisting on an imagined yolk.

I prefer the first definition. I even take it to heart and let it expand: “A person or thing that exists or is present in a place but is not seen, heard, felt, smelled, or tasted.”

Then what is it?

I don’t know. Maybe that is what I am endeavoring to find out.

In an Age of Ice, An Auger is a God

Just trying to break the ice.

That’s the problem with taking too much time, whether it’s away or closer or wherever else we go when we are not present.

I’ve been away. Need to get back into it. But the blank page is a haunted house–the blinking word processor’s line is a reminder that bringing form into formlessness isn’t that hard…it’s only tricky if you want something more than a line.

The line never says enough. That’s where we pick up from.

And that’s where I need to pick up from. That last line, so long ago.

Don’t get me wrong. Been writing as much as ever. Just much more focused, less distracted by this social posturing.

But here I am. Getting back into it all–for posterity, for popularity, for the possibilities we are promised by extroverted polemics.

As simple as taking a solid stem auger to lake ice. Hold steady and let the drill’s teeth do the work.

At least until I break the ice.


Archaeological Preamble (Found Poem)

Environment has always

provided the parameters

within which human cultures may develop

by providing both

opportunities and limitations.


As a result, elements

of the regional environment

are important considerations

in the understanding of cultural development,

as they influenced

not only the types of activities

that could be conducted,

but the ways in which

they could be



In the archaeological record,

this pattern is observed

in the type and location of

archaeological sites

found in

specific environments.


Locally, archaeological sites

are found associated with a specific set

of landforms—

valley edges, knolls,

rivers, lakes and


which would direct travel,

bias routes of communication

and enhance or restrict

resource procurement

and occupation.


Due to this close relationship of

human settlement and

the environment,

a brief overview

of the regional and local


is presented…

In This Deep Slumber

In this deep slumber

before the big sleep


Oxygen tubes sing monotonous sonatas

to no one


Here have this morphine

you won’t feel a thing

don’t know what you think of it all

if you think at all

blink once for yes


Last words rattled days ago

Pastor at the door with last rites

says his God has a plan

says God would send him to hell if he dares end his suffering himself

this pastor with the chubby cheeks

skin smooth from lotion

eyes dulled from child pornography and weekly litanies

fucking hypocrite doesn’t eat meat on Fridays

thinks God has bestowed the right to dictate another man’s karma


In this deep slumber

one could only hope for nothingness


The heart still beats in the chest

of a dead man


Condemned to a midazolam purgatory

before he is ready to say: No

just send me to hell already

Playing It By Ear in the NICU

There is a trick

intensive care nurses use

because I think their training insists that they don’t get people any more down

than their situation is already making them—-

the nurses say things like,

‘let’s play it by ear’

(as if anything medical is improvised,

like the charts are ecstatic jazz jams we’re all scatting along to,

with the appropriate significant digits)

and things like

‘another day or two’

(which I have heard every day

for five days now)

and my favourite

‘that’s okay’

(which is a thinly veiled way that they indicate that they don’t want you to worry,

although you probably should)—-

I have heard it all

the same way I have heard the respiratory rate monitors alarm

and the ECG alarm

and the hissing of high-flow oxygen

and my baby girl cry

because things aren’t alright—-

the nurses know it but they won’t say it—-

it’s okay,

just another day or two,

let’s play it by ear.


A Poemization of The Twilight Zone: Season 1, Epidsode 7

‘The Lonely’
Ep. 7 Season 1
The Twilight Zone

OH boy
now we are done in

picture a dungeon and we are in it
it might stretch to infinity
you are too small to tell
you live in a shack
with a touring car
with nowhere to go

let the record be known
that the containment placed upon you
by the judge jury rocket program
shrivelled your skin for a crime
you committed
before that court scene
faded to black

on a rock
isolated in space

all the months of the year
are the same
every now and then
some supply ship
they bring things for you

the silence

the wind

I believe you know
that it lies
like the grass
it pushes


Pull out the chessboard
company is coming
the cookbook has it all
laid out the way it should

how it be, my friends?
how it be?

I want to shake your hands
each one of you

they aren’t even happy to see him
the supply ship takes six months to feed him
they spend years without knowing their families
their sons become troublemakers

the guys only have fifteen minutes
so let’s get this over with
you criminal
don’t you keep you us out here
too long

it’s terrible scheduling
the logistics are a mess
who knows what the next couple of years
will bring
who knows what will happen before
anything changes


you are a murderer
you killed someone
and you are worth
a rocket ship
and supply ships
to keep you fed and lonely
for forty-six more years

the supply guys are going to bring in the crates anyway
there is food and water and magazines

some nice stuff but no leniency on the sentence
that rocket ship is getting old
too expensive to double for return trips
the procurement process would be a nightmare

after five minutes
and a tense conversation
they leave

they leave
the crate unopened

inside there are
a few vacuum packs
a caution
read the instructions
please wait until we leave
before you open the crates

see you in three months
after we raid the next planet
for some fruit and
precious plutonium and a few
alien sex slaves


them nice supply boys
they brought a woman

a real reasoning speaking woman

with the lips and thighs and
under normal circumstances
has the same life span of a natural human being

my name is alicia
what is your name?

get out of here

get out of here

I don’t want a machine

my name is alicia
what is your name?


come in


I brought you some water

put it over there

can you feel thirst?






why are you a lie?
your face
your flesh
a machine
a terrible machine
built to make me believe

that I will take this kiss

but it’s a lie
you mock me

i’m sorry
you hurt me

how can I hurt you?
this isn’t your flesh
you’re a reminder
that I am so lonely
I am about to lose my mind

but you will wipe that tear
you will hear her out
you will let her back in


you and alicia will play chess
for eleven months

no sum total
man or woman or machine or an extension of

your emotions
unto her
like your rook
to her queen

at least
you are not lonely anymore

nothing else matters
another forty-six years to go



after enough time
for two people
to fall in love

the supply guys come back
with good news

no time to talk
move along
pardons for all
get the hell on the ship prisoner
you are a free man now
carry your fifteen pounds

nothing more
short on fuel
we got some next poor devils
to drag away
back home

alicia and you will finally wave it all goodbye

fifteen pounds
former prisoner
no more

she is my

she is a robot
think with your head

fifteen pounds

no wait
throw out some equipment

fifteen pounds
I don’t got no choice

she’s a woman

fifteen pounds
and now only fifteen minutes

don’t you understand?


all you are leaving behind
is grief
long bored memories

keep it in mind
leave it behind

get on the ship


there is a fragment
of a man’s life
waiting to rust with a machine
that will sink
like a sphinx into the sand

to be secret
like the grains
blown in between the machine’s toes


[ END ]