you get tired of being told what to do, but so what?

 

BECAUSE THE TRUTH OF EVERY GOD IS A LIE

 

a target since the day you were born, a victim until the day you die

 

the dead man digs you, motherfucker

AVAILABLE NOW 

the nature of true disappointment

 

maybe the poem is written in rust-colored blood on a pale blue bedroom wall

 

JOHN SWEET AT 

CYBERWIT

hope for the hopeless, drugs for everyone else

 

everything the prophet said, and all the fools who doubted him

 

ORAZIO SALATI 

@

THE ROBERSON CENTER

 

tell your lover that each passing hour just pushes the book of passing days one page closer to the end

 

those last holy days in the kingdom of oblivion

 

the fine art of growing fat off the flesh of corpses

 

SOME

SMOOTH

FUCKING 

GRAVY

FROM

HIDDEN HAND PRESS

turquoise

 

words written in the street

 

on the sides

where the garbage collects

and all of them stained with salt

 

distant

like the voices of ghosts

or faint like the sun in february

and what she says is that she

doesn't want to fight anymore

 

where we are is the fraying edge

of someone else's city

 

seventy miles an hour and

the prayers that wrap around us like

rusty wire

 

the houses that have burned

and the ones

that are dying slowly

 

the fields where nothing grows

 

where christ is just a rumor

and the crows are all starving and

what she says is that she

thinks we're lost

 

what she says is that

the pills aren't working

 

and i take her hand and

think about what happens next

the dead man found on the bathroom floor

SOMETHING NEW

AND BEAUTIFUL AT

POETRY MIC 

not drunk yet, but moving in the right direction

 

NEW WORK AT

RED OGRE REVIEW