an urger

coming by for this heat you should
knock through some more of these
dancing waves,
let the unmove of their thickness
fight your fingers and love it.

all we can offer in the back is
the shallowness of last year’s harvest-
the shrinking green, pulsing blue
and bare there space for toes to be.
cement will be already heaving
some hate from his chest,
but don’t let that fool.

smelling that this close and
you’ll realize the huffs are whisperings-
the droolboy pants of an ever weakening
worker with too much load for his own good.
and good, now the sun is down we’ll
careen more past the whole part,
make our moves among the sweaty neighbors
so glad a crowd beneath the moonlight now.

let me show everything I remember
while it’s all still stains on my tongue.
I was born here and each night
I lay my head on this ground
it shifts just enough to let me sink
home a little deeper.

a brom pod

another rev up in the
dedications we’re going
to weave to join this
other creep cult.
more sons to let us
enjoy the late May daylight
without burrs or caring.
an easy escaping of
sidewalk streets too narrow
to throw bombs down,
but good and wide enough
for the hips to get to business.
put away the spray can
and the paint if you want
to dance with us.
put away the paper
and the pens.
make it easy on your back
to heave itself upon
the dunes with us.

period sinking

i could’ve run with what was left
of the world out there, through
my fingers, special as on those
hollow days of pace and these
four walls. nothing but minutes
and the compartments already
drawn and right there to fill up
with little bits of organ meat.
peel back the fingernails and
the skin to box up ‘til the daylight
has got bored of watching hands
do nothing while dust grows
fatter and fatter on their knuckles.
blowing past in time to eat up
whole sunday’s, feed unwilling belly
that time and add it to the glut saved up.
then go around the room collecting
matchsticks, sweep the filth through
floorboard creeks and hope the feet
won’t feel the nails and the ticks
in the morning. hope the eyes shut
tight will tighten up to leave the
weakness back there where it belongs.
hope the room is right as it was the
night the lock snapped down and we
thought we could run. 

who survivor

some more lightness and
maybe the fingers will cross.
maybe the signs can
move us fast enough and
we’ll pick up the ritual right off
where the denim disappeared
from our fingers, right on
the pinch, the service and
flicker we’ve abandoned 
once we’re bored.

caress this joint and I’ll get
close as close allows.
new bodies replace the
captives and the cavities.
i hope you’ll feel the threat
unspoke under the breath,
all the way through the wool.
all the way across the continent.
feel just how ugly clothes
can make you when you let them.

dead as hell

here was the night and spark
of dim heel clomping past a
church is just another smear
too dim to make a bat among
the peal of nothing in the park.
each stranger just another
tooth in the jaws of this place
and thick to get sunk in the
 swollen hides of these kids.
each night another race to
be the first one carried out
and slumped into a seat while
clever girls work pincers through
your warmer brothers.
never seen such vegans so
eager to eat each other alive, 
but there weren’t even crumbs
left of those kid’s 
no one’s seen before. 
those kids who never ripped 
a scene before. we can 
barely keep ourselves alive
without bridge tourists 
coming here to rip scraps 
from our bending jaws.  

untitled [demo]

dance and so much
on feet balls. stretch
and grip on toes so
splayed they’ve split
to new muscles just
so they can let us
know what soreness is.

feel my face now,
see the same sore
up here from idiot
grinning and see how
little i care about it.
i could be sorest
for years and still
be fine to palm soft
back beneath
your cardigan,
running fingers
through such blonde
to ache at being gentle.

let the minutes seep
through your brain
and remember the
rest since we’ll be
on our feet again
in no time. up and
at the movement to
speak the flutter felt
without saying a thing. 


this work that never ends
is stopping.

churn and chirp so slowed
we thought worker’s meat
had made a mess of cogs.
all the slow was just because
and so much more now  
we’d stopped the hammer
to see why our levers and
pistons were fighting back.

there was no glide in the pulley
and grunting through our biceps
isn’t pleasing thumps like our
muscles are used to.
dampened thrust and now we’re
wondering why.

no use to wax the ease machine
if we can grind down sawblades
faster on our own with no layers
of metals between this gaunt of
our fingers and the lightning glass.


give me to
the space between
the western wind
and all the
bags of cement.

too much blitz
and kisses in here
to keep me anywhere
but butted up against
the sides of buildings
when bodies try 
and trap me in the city.

dunes as hurdle
as waves when
all I want is the far-out
from behind all the shells.
there will need to be
nothing but space
to be my way,
in my way like a
dirt road out of
everything and left
to heat and places
where you’re not.

miles of river

every so much of this water
we speed by,
and sometimes we speed,
i’ll dip a finger in.

push through
the dividing part until
my arm is swallowed by it.
other times we’re so slow
it’s like the current took
it’s bore and left altogether.
we sit and sitting somehow
can’t even be a verb
those times and we wait.
but the wind will come back
and we’ll move
and that’s my favorite bit
about having come out
the survivor’s hole in tact.


stillness was whole and
all around her she had
to lean into it.
no flutter so much the
nothingness crushed her
and her collapsing drove
her body deep in to
the ground and through
the cracked dragon skin
of the planet.
she would not have
called it a come down.
she would not have
called it a gone through

since words could feel
as rough on your
insides as that.
as this is feeling. 

I'm a monster and I exist

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