New publications

Very happy to announce a couple new publications.

Punk Noir Magazine published a set of five of my recent poems.

My poem, “A Writer Dreams of America,” appeared in The Dead Mule of Southern Literature this month. This poem was based upon a reading of On The Road by Jack Kerouac. It will most likely be the opening poem of my new manuscript.

The new manuscript has really started taking shape. It’s now titled Canon Fodder : poems inspired by classic literature, and it will most likely be released early next year. For my info on the project, I published this piece on Medium talking about how it started and how it developed.

I’m hoping to get some more of the pieces published, but I am having some difficulty finding homes for them. If you are interested in the poems, feel free to contact me.

For Champ

For Champ

When you love a dog,
you want it to live forever
because you know
just how close
tomorrow is.

You bring that puppy
into your life,
home from the pound
and its harsh chemical smell,
its harsh reverberant chatter
of barks echoing
through tile, concrete, chainlink.

He sleeps like a warm pillow,
nose whistling,
head at rest on your thigh.
Look how big his paws are!
Look how his lip gets stuck
under his bottom tooth, so cute!

When he’s bounding up the steps,
when he’s chasing his tail,
sitting with his head cocked
watching you eat pizza,
tearing a tennis ball to shreds
and leaving bits of bright green
fuzz caught in the carpet,
you love him.

You love him while you tell him no
a thousand times,
while you wipe his puke up
for the thousandth time,
while you bag his poop
hot in your hand
under the thin pink plastic
just so the neighbors won’t complain,

when even the cloying scent
of dog becomes a comfort
in the cushions of your couch,
your bedsheets, your mattress.
You even love the sight of his shedding,
stray fibers everywhere,
on your car seats,
on every shirt you pull from the drawer.

You don’t care.
You love that dog,
he’s your family,
he’s the son that can never disappoint you,
that can never default on his loan,
can never call from a payphone
asking for bail money.

He will never stop loving you
because you had to say no,
and he will never stop
being happy
just to see you
walk through the door.

There’s not an ounce of hate in a dog,
not one single ounce
of vindictiveness or spite.
But there is loyalty.
There is joy.
And yes, there is humanity,

which is why it hurts
just so fucking much
to let go
when tomorrow comes,

because no matter the number
of days you get
walking the sun lit trails
of the in-between,
it always will seem
like time fell just short
of being enough.

For the Poetry Police: a poem

Word Whored

~after William S. Burroughs,
for the Poetry Police

The American cemetery is nothing
but coffee and blood,
drug addicts and info addicts
pouring their mucus membranes
full of battery acid for kicks,
sick yellow ghosts
caught in balloons
and tubes tethered to the sun.

Veins crawling with neon spiders,
a fix that hums like tinnitus
or a refrigerator stuffed with Coca-Cola
running in a bomb shelter or
a basement below the street
where JFK showed the world his brain.

These are the bites that glow
and pulse like liquid light.
These are the spiny tendril fingers
pointy and barbed with ticklish poison.
This is the American Dream
self-siphoning a hole
of Kool-aid laced gasoline.

I am Jack B. Nimble.
I am Jack B. Quick, of the Quicken and Loan,
son of Sam and a mouth
spilling rancid Quaker oatmeal
resembling liquified brains
or the last will and testament
of JFK’s cerebellum.

I watched the doctor
masturbate feverish
as a kid with the alcohol shakes,
his eyes spilling centipedes,
kerosene, and runny egg yolk,
yellow as his semen
shooting against the wall,
his cubicle now a grotesque collection
of samples and abstract art collage
smelling like a rotten mountain
of rat bodies piled like they could
reach the moon,
and I felt my cock get hard.

This poem is an orgasm
gone so decadent
all the assholes are quivering
between the cheeks of assholes
stifling their ecstatic screams
squirming like worms in their seats.
I am the planet, the cephalopod,
the machine that devours screams.
I’m filling your ears
with the mucus and secretion
and fetidly fragrant semen
of words too obscene to breathe.

This poem is a gang rape,
a conflagration of penile knives
pumping in and out of eye sockets
and rectal vaginas alike.
This poem is teeth clamping down
on a scrotum like a thin fleshy
raisin and ripping it free
of an elderly body, setting the sky
ablaze with steaming blood
and the fireworks of throats
hungry for flame.

This poem is stealing
the virginity of the Virgin Mary,
a forceful moan of wind
ripping through clitoral skin
and painting the caverns
of press-ironed slacks
with her holy ejaculate piss,
the canyon cubicle temples
blue-black and business gray,
pin-striped suit faces
upturned to welcome
the spray of her incandescent shit.

I am just the conduit.
I am the lightning rod
of erectile nerve sense,
a climax of cerebral cortex
gone incandescently wild
like St. Elmo’s Fire, electricity
skipping stones across the heads
of a multitude of dicks,
the flagpoles encircling the globe
like the stations of the cross,
wishy washy as a gay priest
granting sacraments to the sinful
or the diseased.

Your reaction is the expected
elicitation of being incensed,
an emotional response most akin
to shitting a razor
while someone fingers your gash.
I am nothing
but a windmill for laughs.
I revel in your outrage
like a burn victim rolling in gas
and slathering myself
with the sewage of your horrified gasps.

I take your petition and I fuck it,
I fuck it and I beat it
and I fuck it some more,
until it begs for forgiveness
for ever wishing
this pain to live anywhere else
but inside us.

Not only is it beautiful,
this depravity must not be denied,
lest it grow like the concept
of hell burst open wide,
a guilt this body
was just never meant to hide
within the parabola
of its senses.

three New publications

April is starting off well. I have had three new poems appear in issue ten of ImpSpired Magazine, based out of the UK. Thanks to the editor Steve Cawte.

I participated in a special promotion for National Poetry Month sponsored by the Film Shooter’s Collective, where a poem is paired with the work of a photographer for each day of the month. My poem appeared on day three, and here it is.

And this morning, another new poem appears at The Rusty Truck. Thanks to the editor Scot D. Young.

All these pieces of part of my ongoing project, responding to classic works of literature. I hope they will all eventually make it into a full length manuscript.

Thanks for checking them out. Let me know what you think.

Some new publications

I have recently had two poems published with reputable journals, and I have some more on the way. I have been slowly making progress on a new manuscript of poems, in which I’ve been reading through classic works of literature that I never took time to engage with in the past, and I write poems that respond to and communicate with those novels. It’s a fun project for me, and I am learning a lot, while also reading some of the best novels ever written.

At any rate, one of the poems from that project is here, published with As It Ought To Be Magazine. It’s a poem that was written in response to the Ernest Hemingway novel The Sun Also Rises.

The other published piece, was with a UK based journal called The Lake. They’ve published me before. They graciously reprinted a poem from my collection Corona, titled Fathoms of Mourning.

Thanks to the editors of both of these journals. And keep checking back for future updates, as I continue to get more of these poems out into the world.

My new endeavor

I have been writing steadily for Medium for over a year now, and have found this to be a rewarding experience. Much of my poetry can be found there now, along with various essays on politics and writing.

Since I have started doing this I have received far more engagement with my work on this platform than I ever had anywhere else. And Medium pays its writers.

If this interests you at all, there is a link to my profile either in the sidebar of my website, or I can spare you the effort of looking by posting a link right here.

As always, thank you for your support, and I hope you will follow me and my future writings at my new home. Stay safe and be well.

a woman ablaze

~for the rape victim of Unnao

She walked a kilometer
burning alive,
somehow lucid
through the pain,
a voice in the flame
just begging
to be heard.

And even now,
forty hours gone,
the limits
to the cruelty of men
prove themselves
a dream of light
lost inside
this event horizon.

Somehow, her cries
still carry
like echoes traced in smoke,
her hands curled
into hot irons branding
the flesh of her rapists,
damning scars,
damning injustice.

Out on bail,
they beat her,
stabbed her,
poured gasoline
and lit her clothes,
but no man ever knows
that every woman
is a phoenix
that rose
from the ashes
of her suffering.

So, India, are you listening
now? And men,
will you ever learn,
that these fires you set
to silence the conscience
of your crimes,
are merely catalysts
priming the world
to burn.

Turn turn turn

I found my opinion
leering at naked women
and chastised it
for its brazen disregard
of ocular transgressions,
micro and macro.

My opinion stumbled
from the red rectangle
of the bar entrance
to the driver side door
and blinked away
blurry vision
all the way home.

My opinion is a crybaby,
a bully,
an often misguided missile,
striking a target
with no concern
for the collateral damage.

He walks down dark alleys
dragging a crowbar
caked with rust
and dried liquid
that flakes off black
in his hands
very similar to rust.

I toss him out of my house
like a paper plane,
a drum with a hole in it,
a bowling ball
tied to some fishing line
with two hooks,
one imbedded in each
of my bloodshot eyes.

I wrestle him down
like an older brother
or a father I never had
asking me to say uncle
with no idea
what happens next
after the name has been uttered.

My opinion gets lonely,
it needs to fuck,
to be touched,
admired for its form,
the shock rock smoothness
of cold steel and flesh,
it has needs, it has feelings,
but most of all
it has fists.

For my mother

To my mother on her 60th birthday

You’re still trying to teach me
the most important of life’s lessons,
the necessity for laughter
in moments beyond our control,

a lesson I’m resisting
like a stubborn child
trying to climb a motorcycle
before he’s learned to ride his bike,

and maybe that’s what motherhood
teaches women before men,
makes them wiser, more mature,
accepting of circumstances

beyond the bending of our will,
that knowledge of autonomy
in the birthing of breath,
watching the chrysalis called home

break to unsheathe frail new wings,
that each babe eventually grows teeth
and a desire to eat new things,
to put new poisons into its body,

to envelope itself in a new cocoon
called privacy and individual experience,
you watch your children
run past the boundaries of the yard,

remove the training wheels
before they’re fully aware
that their brakes will eventually fail,
that every crested hill

reveals a new chance for danger,
but there’s nothing stopping you
from wanting to see the valley
so you best be laughing on your way down.