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Road Trip
Your eyes remind me of the radio, full of songs about long good-byes. All night we have tailed the moon, as if it were the great white whale. The rich scent of pitch pine groves, the night gods we are...
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At the Ministry of Ministries
This is the dust factory, this is the office of cobwebs. Grain after grain of dust pushes through our pores, grimy runnels of water flow down our dirty faces. Fingers scuttle over the dusty keyboards...
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A Kitchen Epic
I’m eating sweet peppers in the kitchen – yellow and red peppers, colors of a crayon sun – thinking omnivorous thoughts, the moonlight lying like a mathematical formula on the linoleum, cold and...
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A Play for Voices
Boys: A Play for Voices First Voice: I am sound as a crofter. I am very simple, planting my wheat seeds, the rain and wind fostering the growth of my frail specks. The sun’s care is more ambiguous: he...
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Neptune
Neptune is a pauper fishing bottles from the trash He is a redeemer and a recycler, an artist of sorts He is not a people person Unicorns and voodoo gods breathe easy on his ethereal archipelago Here...
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Mythic Poem
Self-image counts in the underworld of the train – this is a moving art gallery, please present a face worth gossiping about. We have dolled ourselves up to keep everybody else out; but we want you to...
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Missing Persons Flyers after the Tragedy
A blizzard is a case of mistaken identity. It confiscates features, makes the blackbird resemble the dove. It says “you’ve got the wrong guy,” but can’t tell you the right one. It melts with alarm when...
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Autobiography of a TechnoShaman
Voices in the mushrooms, voices in the toaster, my diary anchored me in a world that can’t be seen. On the microcosmic arms of a grandfatherly oak small yellow ants marched, singing. The wind...
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Headache
Furious, the light infests my optic nerve. Shouts of children needle my teeth. A higher power volts through me. The marrow and tongue, wired with copper, twitch. Vacuumed into the glassy air, the mind...
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Article 0
Within the heart are yet other hearts each with its own hunger hoarded like a swamp of Venus flytraps in a hot greenhouse. Rooted in such a clingy horde that when they suck at the bones’ dense waters...
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An NYC Constellation
I feel my way across the street, cautious as a cockroach. Eyes, eyes, eyes follow my moves. The moon, witchy as always, curves a boomerang of bone, a slender come-hither crypt-keeper finger. My brain...
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La Primavera
She’s on the tv she’s always on the tv. Her gigantic black skirts apocalypse o’er the town. She throws trucks into trees, boy does she seem angry. On the tv mothers are weeping but she shows them no...
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The Ghosts
are milling about on the mansion’s lawn full of anticipation. Starry-eyed as sailors and astrologers, around the linden tree beneath the Hollywood tinsel of a fat moon’s light they are giddy at the...
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June 15th
Every day we must endure some suffering, large or small. It is how we stay human. Endless pleasure lies at the core of one dystopian vision after another: remember SOMA in Brave New World? Without the...
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Crow Polymorph
Your hooks snagged in reindeer liver kidney & guts beak in filth your feathers sup all the colors from the sun a drop of its black blood your gobsmacking, sky scraping intercession gulp down the...
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from Field Notes of a Happy Childhood
she walks past the lonely schizophrenic’s house first…in her garden, a gnome she has glued together from whelk shells, a stump, and sparrow bones…black cat on the stoop, hers, licking clean assassin’s...
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A Walk through Central Park
The sun speaks to me like a virus, passing through the city, leaving it in a slather of fever sweat…the artist descends into the underworld, the artist works in the tunnels between the moments of...
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What You Need to Know about Being an Artist
There’s the glacial fields, for starters, cracking up into thousands of sad little islands, all horribly haunted. I see literally nothing rough about a clean-shaven face, especially if it smiles smugly...
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The Artist Starving
As by some enigmatic organ, she transmutes the notes of a ukelele into food, like a shrub its chlorophyll, like St. Monica her eucharist. She feels the muscle of her sphincter twist shut, and there’s a...
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The Artist and the Internet
She bought a Blackberry which counseled her heart and head with weird advice; and with its interface she found the imagined presences of a sister, of NASA, of Mt. Kilimanjaro, and of all the effluvial...
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