because its how i feel


thick wind has come back
I’m under attack
take my heart back
black thunder
rips across the land

the sky’s dry
frying like I
fingertips split black
sit back
venom drips down my throat
I spit back

a damned sky cracks
white lightning flash
words clash so fast
blast from the past

a knife
and a shadow
a ghost
in the past tense
I can see through
me and you

a solid path
blood bath

peel me apart
I’m see through
deep deep breath 

fuck you

Where Dead Mice Sleep

Bring your church to the key – back rooms –
chimney sweep – flushed with soot –
black like cats – deep in Winter sleep.

Bring your arm to my ball – and chain
me up – downstairs – I
am a slave

to black waves of adultery –
and let’s not leave out the China, please? – In
the hutch, where dead mice sleep.

Take me to your temple – here, now go
to sleep – shackled to me –
wrapped in spite –
or luxury.

I won’t drop or swallow – your metal is safe
against my chest – One of us
is naked on the inside –

Christ would like how we make it here –
every Winter –
while the cats let the mice sleep.

Pale Blue Soul

I wasn’t ready. I could deny that I was ready,
that I was black consequence,
I had blind chances,
but sight breaks
like disinfectant.

His quiet minutes blew off the wind.
His face said that he had no
empty and careless,
and I was a thoughtful child
going East.

We were west on the river together,
he wanted to float
like fire wood, but my
blood was a red earth drink,
fearing love and
death and
everything that
sickens in between.

I wasn’t ready to lay my spine calmly
over salmon and
kill the iron blackness
that tightened me deep inside
the roots of the land.

Life after life I planted sorrowfully.
She murdered me
with lima beans and raw potatoes.
I was in love.
I was in life with her,
the river,
the sky,
the Earth,

and then she cast a shriek against
my roots;
a massacre of my protection.
The sun went down and
a pale-blue winter soul
slid between my thighs,

and now I am her,
and I can never be ready.

I Was Her Before The Sun Went Down

and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high

and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
the shot,
the bounce,
your heavy gunman.

The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.

I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to reach,
to grab,
to attach myself to the moon.

I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,

not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
a reminder.

A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.

Lynch Law

I live angrily as
a nest keeper.  Of giant twigs,
stressed circles, cradled
meadow sprigs –

a sharp bed intrusive to Slumber-
land. A rude
carnivore bites at my tanned
leg lines.

Once, I rolled toward
nest Head,
Bed Bug…

his bullish limbs
clutched my merit,
kindred as
orange and red compass.

We slammed hammers to habit,
congested air particles with
polluted hate vomit, we
danced each other into cement,
off skyscrapers to meat cleaver sidewalks.

Until, nests became pine boxes.

Boulders rolled in,
crushed my nose into
lines of dead life, I inhaled.

With everything I had, I inhaled, as
shards of pine darted
from his eyes.
Lies followed, grabbing each arm, lifting
my body
through gray skies. Tears wobbled out mortified
raining small crux drops

over orange-red meadow sprigs,
ambiguous  layers shed under liquid

Now, I live angrily as
nest keeper,
whistling out  at dead meadow
straw to rope Lynch Law in,
Justice for Him.