This Same Spot

Keep poets out

of the planted beds.

There is something wrong and

it is not just inside the head.

Another confession in which the

guilt remains a secret still.

And that dream with movement

through the physical remains.

Finding a gigantic infant weeping inside

a small box and loneliness and waking-

up screaming on the inside trying to forget

of course and this was just two days ago.

That same day it was an identical situation,

static, paralyzed in that position. Now it will

be known but it won’t be for the better,

and it doesn’t matter if it matters.



This little boy murdered me in my dreams. A twelve year old, blonde-haired blue-eyed. It was the first time that my being had ever experienced being shot. The child put a pistol up to my chest at point-blank range. He had no fear but at the same time he had no idea. The bullet pierced through my heart. The kind of machine he used to kill me was irrelevant, as my organ, and my life shattered regardless. It felt like a part of me was killing myself. There was unbridled panic and every instant carried with it less of a chance for survival. I opened up, realizing unbroken blackness. I woke up and wandered for miles. This was not me. I had not been able to deal with the thoughts resulting from this dream like usual ones. Every time I saw a child, they aroused those fears. Violence begets violence, and since I could not distinguish between the waking world and that of slumber, I thought of terrible things without any inner moral recourse. There were people around that seemed to recognize me, yet I did not know who they were. I could not spare my vapid thoughts to anyone else. That was when I truly gained an appreciation for reality. I reached the river. I fulfilled my unnatural desires and then threw myself into oblivion. I was awakened.


A Portion of Automatic and a Dash of Anger

let the grease drip from jaw to collarbone

wish that nothing ever happened in the ways that they did

unopened cereal boxes are on the front lawn for the infants to eat and then curl up and die in

humans developed this concept for the sole purpose of being self-absorbed

the tendencies can be either self-deploring or narcissistic in nature, the intent is always the same

my fingers tasted like bloody grass

on the outside, on the inside

the paper cuts made thin incisions into my lungs

I don’t know when it’s gonna’ happen but when it does

I’m gonna’ be buried in the sand with geese flying sideways overhead

there were more bars in the town we grew up in than trashcans out in the street

three identical corpses of my former nemesis lay in the same road

I don’t know what any of it means

left the hinges bare the paper trailed thin

hold the death-cake to the ear of the incompetent

I gave my brain radiation for you

when I look up

smelling a different scent

I want it now more than ever

another costly ride

the photographs on the wall

are ominously yellow with time

I’ll come to never see you again in black peace