Wednesday, April 29, 2015

the weight of ambition

                     and if i give you all my
happy songs, and if christ spends his
free time praying for our deaths
if we learn to ignore the politicians
to defy the laws that are created
only to let all power stay in the hands
of those who already hold it, and
if we fuck like priests and whores
                 like dogs
nothing but the blood of hope
smeared across the walls in
this house we call home

Sunday, April 26, 2015

boy found dead in the river’s veins

february and
the baby is hungry

they are all stoned in
the other room
the sunlight pale and
without heat

but brilliant
like the blind eye of god
and i have begun measuring
my life in failed

have been dreaming of california
and of the holiness that
radiates from the
pacific coast highway
and what i know is the smell
of fear

the golden haze of gasoline
and the name of the boy
found dead in the river’s veins

and no one asks
to be christ here but
the nails are still driven home

there are men who
smile with the sharpened teeth
of animals and
there are the daughters
they rape and i am tired of
hearing that these words
i choose to give you
cannot be poetry

i am tired of the baby’s screams

it was never enough
just believing we would all
become beautiful in some
unforeseeable future

Thursday, April 23, 2015

map of false desire

said the man is dead

says the river is frozen

all of us nothing more than
pointless stories w/
sad, obvious endings

a certain moment
and then the next

name the silence of
clean white hallways

find shadows in
abandoned parking lots

this is time measured by
decay, by isolation
and loss

sorrow is not despair,
but give it time

the future is a liar, just
like any good soldier

the past gets muddied w/
broken bones and

these small towns are
the opposite of
everything we should
ever believe in

these cities are worse

keep driving north to
the house of this woman
i’m not supposed to love

stay home and
pull all the shades

no one ever promised you
a war you could win

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


Sitting in a freshly painted room, thinking
that I should be leaving, thinking that it
smells like rain. I have left my son's globe
on the living room table. I have left too
many bills unpaid, too many windows open,
and the truck is almost out of gas. The
woman walking down the stairs knows my
name, smiles like we're old friends, says
she lost everything in the flood. Says her
husband left her for a younger woman,
but she can't be more than twenty-two,
twenty-three. She can't stop crying, and
I can't think of anything to say. I need to
get home in case there's a fire. In case the
phone rings. I am tired of waiting for

joseph cornell

Saturday, April 11, 2015

river of tears

this is your voice in
the silence between us

these are the ideas of god
and godlessness set

my hands cold and
never holding you

your fears
which have come to define me

being sorry
which is one form of defeat
and what i wait for is
the day
you tell me you hate me

what i believe in are
acts of futility

the hands of saviors
nailed to church doors

anger that can be
directed outwards

and the question
isn't who you'll save but
who you'll let down

and the days are all weights
the truths i give you
look emaciated when placed
against what you've built
in your mind

this person i've become
has to be someone's fault

give me this much at least

review of FAMINE, copies still availbable from me

Saturday, April 04, 2015

the failure you imagine is never as terrible as the one you become

but here in the season of the resurrection and
one hundred thousand miles away from
those rooms where diego was busy fucking
frida’s sister, we wake up to snow

we wake up to blood on the sheets and the
image of christ etched into the frost that films
the bedroom window, but what good are
miracles when the transmission is shot?


how far into the forest do we have to
walk until we’re truly free?

all of these circular goddamn questions
that i save for the drowning boy only to
realize too late that he was dead long
                           before i was ever born

Wednesday, April 01, 2015

the refusal

shoot the doctor in the
back as he walks away then
tell him he’s a coward while he
dies at your feet

it’s an addiction,
like humor

it’s a punchline

you capture the soldier, a
boy of fifteen or sixteen, and
then you torture that fucker
until he’s on the floor in a
pool of his own shit and blood

this is how wars are won

make your children
understand this

tell them how much you hated
your own father,
how much he hated you

show them the scars

explain how they can only
grow up to
repeat your mistakes