Tuesday, December 15, 2009

new poem


This morning, pacing,
I understood the importance
of basic things.

If there was nothing
to distract us we'd all
be taken by a
rapid darkness.

The fact is that each second
has in it the potential
for death's arrival.

I made a few phone calls.
I was in a state of panic
because there was a man,
a savage vigilante, chasing me
with his machete.

The truth is,
he's always chasing me
but I only let others
know occasionally.

Please, do not contact the authorities.

I should use this time
to apologize to anyone
still waiting for me
to call them. I'm sorry
for hiding, it's only a
defense mechanism.

I would go outside

trees and water and
the intricacy of nature
remind me only of a
beautiful girl
who is incapable of
loving you back.

Here, in the back,
I can see the driver
dozing. Maybe he's on
too much of something.
Either way, he's forgotten
where we're going
and I'm not compelled
to tell him. He swerves
right, corrects himself,
then swerves left.

Half of me knows
that when we crash
we will land unsuccessfully
and be eaten alive by vultures.

In the morning, rotting,
we will understand the importance
of much more than
basic things,
and maybe then,

under the wreckage,
I'll be over it.

Friday, December 11, 2009

new poem

"December 11th, 3:55 am"

I stood by the door, half-open,
trembling, listening to
you make noise in there
with him.

I knew you better when
your hair was shorter and
a different color, when
your head was full of smoke
and my belly full
of downers.

I often wonder why I
feel pain in both of
my shoulders, but then
I remember
that my body is full of poison
and that I fell off the sofa.

Sophia, I am withered and
beaten by your infernal wisdom.

These frostbitten urchins
are all my children, and I
have been hiding in my room
for as long
as time has bloodied them.

There is also a painting
of birds behind the desk
of Dr. Richardson.
My poor mother sent me
to him

because she thought I
was going to kill myself.

Dr. Richardson says that
every person is like a puzzle
with missing pieces, and that
some people are missing too
many pieces
and it's his job
to find those pieces and
help his patients put
together their own unique

Being with Dr. Richardson
makes me want to
swallow all of my
mother's klonopin
and wake up in a
foggy heaven

with all of my dead dogs.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

ten favorite albums of 2009 (no order)

Top To Bottom:

Necrophobic - Death To All

Nudge - As Good As Gone

Blut Aus Nord - Memoria Vetusta ii: Dialogue With The Stars

To Kill A Petty Bourgeoisie - Marlone

Fever Ray - S/T

The Ruins Of Beverast - Foulest Semen Of A Sheltered Elite

Katharsis - Fourth Reich

Bloody Panda - Summon

Zola Jesus - The Spoils

Glorior Belli - Meet Us At The Southern Sign

Monday, July 6, 2009

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

new poem

Residential Doubles

we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was

summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us

passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time

I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,

I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she

tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.

Friday, April 24, 2009


Part One.

I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.

I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.

Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.

My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.

When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.

The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.

I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Thursday, March 5, 2009

new poem

The Elderly

The Elderly are now
taking Cocaine Cues
from young men
with lip-piercings,


We were
originally trained find the
infamous Heartworms Of Spirit
and Body,

and there is a difference
between the use of
abstractions in poetry and

the use of poems
as psychoactives,

Uncle Lester's ass
still hurts, too taxed to buy
laxatives. I remember, your
number ended with three sixes,


were they twos? My first sentence
had something to do with the

sickly, or
splinters covering The Elderly,

still circling
outlines of
old enemies, lost
in the city, and
bored by poetry,

we, the disposessed,
deserve some hot sex,

some hard candy...?

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

new poem

Cinema Skullz

the buck stops here so
lick my feet
and shoot this dirty animal,


filial sentiment,
bondage, or
something American,

some shadows,

and you shot a gallon
of gunk on
your mother's ghoulish tits
and your mother
is just

like you,
a real cuckoo
with credit problems
and bad skin.

back to
your final cameo,
and the softness of skulls
behind other skulls, other screens

darker, the
last scene equals many dead things,

your naked process,
your severed heel

my last lunch before war

three favorite films pt. 3

Saturday, February 28, 2009

new poem

"Possible Notes (my brain is on fire)"

these crawling bitches will terrorize

the garden, and though your lawn will remain

unchanged, there is still a curse somewhere

in this building, leaving you to wait

restlessly in the lobby. Did you forget

to get the right groceries? Prepare to be

more plump, more unhappy during your middle years,

years and years and still I do not remember

you, my dear and darling

Acrobatic Shotgun Wizard

BANG BANG!, I say,

but no one can

hear me here

in aisle 6


Friday, February 27, 2009

new poem

Ghosts of Palatine

When they wiggle out
of bed, I am again

tardy, totally

asleep behind
the Mastectomy

among other things,
there are others all
around me, nesting
their tired bodies
chemical shrub.

Kid creeps me out, your father said

after I left. When
you were
was when
you first disappeared, and
your mother called mine
and mine called another,
thousands of sad, sad mothers
dialing numbers to
find you, and

no you.

Still sleeping,
did I miss your
call? I bumped into you
at the mall?? No
way. Anyway, I'm
sorry, Stacy,
I don't feel like
me, see, when I

was ten was
first fell
the crater,

your father
the computer,

are you
still there? Sorry friend,


I must be

dead already


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

new poem

The Tripout Chamber

too nervous
to not blink
too much

sam steps in
then i step in
and by the end we are

too wasted
to find
our own feet


i do not see sam when

i step in
before him but
by the end my head
is spinning too fast to see


to step in
is to stop
seeing what i usually see

and when

i step in again


i see sam

behind me

Sunday, February 22, 2009

an even newer poem yo!

Gary, 73

You see, harder drugs, the big guns like heroin, they teach you more about life in the long run. Sounds crazy, but believe me, addiction problems and just hard times in general have helped me become the strong and wise man I am today, and someday, you, a young person, can be strong and wise too. Just listen for once.

Have you read Crime and Punishment? Dostoevsky, he believed suffering was essential for some sort of Christian mystical experience, and he was right and you should read up on him if you haven't already, young mister,Mr. Peach Fuzz, Mr. All grown up, ah geez I love you and miss you and

my ass hurts real bad.

My advice to you, little kiddo, little devil, is to fuck up your life as much as you can while you're still young. Just don't die. See, sooner or later, if you don't die, you'll be an old man like me, and you'll

be more like me,
just like me,
fuckin' shit up real hard
in the land of the free.

My ass still hurts real bad.


Uncle Gary

new poem

daniel, divisible

such a great

sure yesterday
to meet you today
not so great lost in space in

some strange neighborhood not
yours maybe ten miles from
yours jumped five fences i am
naked in a lot of
trouble trying to find
you you have no idea the pain

i'm in mornings should
never be
like today today
it is morning and
i'm on a million milligrams
of something
so come find me i feel
so sick
so lost out here
somewhere on
such a fucked up morning
without you


MySpace Codes

Saturday, February 21, 2009

new poem

Karl asks a question.

lets call them


two twentysix
year old
dudes, white
as glue with

baseball caps, both


well I saw them last night
outside the Chevron station,
the certified chillspot

for Floridian
hoodlums, anyway,

yes, I saw them there, Mike and Paul,

with two
young teens, two girls, two

nympho Goddesses
training, and I

started thinking
to myself,

Paul and Mike are
going to
fuck the shit out of these
beautiful teenage ladies,
perhaps even

pop their
shaved cherries,

so my question is,

why am I,
a classy kind of guy,
locked in the trunk of my car
about to die from swallowing too
many of my wife's


Thursday, February 19, 2009

new poem

Larry (and his buddy)

On mondays,
between the hours of three and five pm,

I leave my house to meet my friend named,
well, no, I'm not going to tell you his

actual name because
I could be killed

and I am afraid of death
and so are you

so stop lying to yourself right now,
you fucking liar you fucking liar.

Anyway, my nameless friend was injured badly
several years ago in a horrible accident

and he lost both of his legs
and both of his testicles,

so now he lives alone in a modest
little home and on

mondays I meet
with him, my friend, between three

and five pm because
he provides me with the

all the firearms and ammunition
I need in order to protect myself in this

increasingly dangerous world.
So my friend, the gunslinging cripple


happens to agree,
we live in a world which will eventually

implode or explode or be taken over by
homicidal alien creatures,

and, God Forbid, if such a thing happens,
at least my nameless friend

and I will be
prepared to kick ass and prove who's boss

in this vortex of

unbridled freedom

three of my favorite films part 2




new poem


Everyone at
Bingo is diseased,
even the folks of my
friends, like my

friend Sal, his
mother Marge
is all about
Bingo, goes there every

until recently
when Sal's Dad
found out that Marge was
a liar liar pants on fire
and that

Bingo was not Bingo and that
Bingo was a bar and
Bingo was some other dude's dick.

My friend Sal,
his family



Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

new poem


Naked, between two oncoming Hondas.

My friend or fuckbuddy or whatever named
Wanda got killed that way. Naked and dusted
out of her skull.

Wanda liked to strip down so much she even
made a living at it. She stayed at my place
for a few weeks and used to smoke a ton of
crack in the bathroom near the kitchen.

I told her it was cool as long as she helped
clean up around the house sometimes,
and suck my dick daily.

Okay, so one day
Wanda was gone and
so was all my money.

I got so angry
I threw my TV at the stove.

It's fucked up, but
at one point I even wished
death upon that bitch but
then like

two days ago I heard she was dead
and so I was like "Oh shit" so I started
writing this and so now i'm done

I guess? Yeah.

Monday, February 16, 2009

three of my favorite films pt. 1

MySpace Codes

MySpace Codes

MySpace Codes

Steve Martin is seriously one of my creative heroes. I think I might do a blog dedicated to him with an essay or something like that.


new poem

Kenny's Valentine

yeah i fucked her like 2 months ago or some shit and she kept callin and callin until finally i was like look bitch whats done is done so go find someone else to fuck

you NASTY SLUT BITCH but anyway like

3 days ago or some shit i heard that bitch tried to off herself with a shitload of her moms xannies and some beer or some shit and so they had to pump her stomach and send her to the hospital and all that so yeah

shes alive now and i know shes gonna keep buggin me so sometimes i wish she took bunch more benzos and a bunch more beer and sometimes i wish she never woke up and sometimes

i wish that stupid fucking bitch was dead

where I live.

MySpace Codes

Sunday, February 15, 2009

new poem

To Jason

your stepfather,
the fifth grade science teacher,
treated your mother very, very

so eventually her eyes became so bruised
she started wearing these jumbo-sized
sunglasses, the ones from Jewel-Osco,
and her friend Beth, the only one left,
would ask your mother daily,

"Susan, what's with the sunglasses?",

and your mother would just lie and
we'd just get high in the attic
while your mother and stepfather would fight

until one night
when the police pulled up
to your house and your stepfather,
the fifth grade science teacher,
was gone for good and

we drank the rest of his beer
and like three years later I heard
you went to prison
for possesion so

I hope you don't get raped.

Monday, February 9, 2009

new poem

Julia, 1st Period Algebra


too stoned to bone least im not thinkin bout you when im this high

so high in da sky superfly butterfly NINJA 4-LIFE

and fuck da haterz and don't show this to anyone tomorrow youarewaytoofuckingstonedfuckingidiot just stop writing stop it cant stop it stop this no ones gonna stop this fag! uggggh




Sunday, February 8, 2009

new poem

A History of Kenny

said its in my past,

am no
longer a
sex object
for my Uncle


and the


drinks beer with.


I am different,
not a Sex Object
or a

Sperm Vacuum



and the


drinks beer with

say I am.


I am a different person not
as a slave,

as a Vacuum
for the sperm


and the


drinks beer with.


I am just me,
just fine being
the king of my neighborhood.

my name is

Special K
so I hope you respect that.

I hope you do not decide to FUCK with

Special K


Special K

will FUCK your shit up and leave you and your


dead or injured seriously.

You see,

either way,

it doesn't truly matter




Special K,

king of the

motherfucking jungle.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

new poem

"Nathan, Age 11"

fuck school

fuck you

fuck faggots

fuck bitches

fuck stupid faggot bitches

bitches love me

I fucked your mom

I fucked all your moms moms



two rules

be chill

act cool.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

new poem

Pillow God

I lived in a house with my mother and father for what seemed like forever but it was actually until I was eighteen the summer I went to the slammer for stabbing a person too many times in the neck.

Most of my time growing up was spent in the basement, where there was a big-screen TV and lots of room and space for guests. I used like to watch action movies with Dolph Lungren in the basement. And drink lots of soda. There were many things to do, in my home, in my basement. See, these were the days before puberty, before I was wetting my bed with semen. That basement was my own private party club.

No girls allowed.

One of my favorite things to do in the basment was arrange my father's designer pillows in a vertical row and then hump the pillows as if they were humans until my hairless thurst-hammer felt all tingly. Until it felt really good.

I used to lie on that couch
for what seemed like forever,
forever until

Mom made dinner


American Gladiators.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

new poem


As my friends will tell you,
I have trouble remembering much
of anything. For instance,

was it last evening?
Or an evening not last evening?
Perhaps even a druggy morning
when I bumped into

Jason? Yes, it was Jason,
the same Jason who used to sling
in the house i'm now
living in.

"Central Florida", he said

"Tomorrow, I'm leaving",

and right then and there,
directly in front of him,
I understood so clearly how
our lives are based solely on


that is,
until the memory of Jason

escaped me

and I was left
with only a
fourty of Mickey's

and my


Tuesday, January 27, 2009

new poem

Dream #1

When I step from the entrance
to Tina's loft of
flashy narcotics and\or-forget the or-
intercourse between strangers
I see a kitten whose dark eyes burn
through whatever is left of me.

There were many men with pinpointed
pupils and oversized jackets
on the way home,
and when I say "home" I really
mean your mother's house because your
mother-your lovely mother-has sex with
many young and waifish men and yes, I
happen to be one of them

believe me, this is nothing personal.

Earlier, before I ventured to
Tina's, I had a dream in which
I was chasing an unnamed nymphette
from my glitchy past through a
shopping mall. She turned a corner
and I lost her, but no, the dream was
not over because later I saw her
face-to-face at her parents' place where
we first locked eyes and I tried to glue
my melting face to yours

but failed.

The next night, awake, no one,
not even Tina and her
shapely cohorts could replicate
the last dream I would have before
dying between two ravaged buildings

surrounded by
these strange men with

and oversized

In closing,
I pray you are somewhere
far from danger,
still waiting for me to
steal medicine from
your mother's secret cabinent.

Goodbye, Bug-Eyes.