So, what’re you up to?

The right thing
That thing
The thingy thing
The very thing itself
It’s the thing
With the other thing
Multiple things

The right stuff
That stuff
Stuffy stuff
My stuff
Gerge Carlin stuff
Stuffed away stuff
Stuffing stuffed stuff

The thing
The stuff
The stuff and the thing
Or stuffs and things
Stuff and things


Masturbation Scars

I love you to the sun
Through it
And into the infinite
I know that you love me

I’ve sacrificed for want
For priciple
For love
Of course

But your efforts insignificant
I got your letter
Sorry not sorry
It’s the usual

Loving you, then
Is rampant masturbation
Powered by lust
Fantasy the foundation
With reciprocity lacking
Causing friction unassuaged
Rending soft flesh
Blood mixes with spit
And in the end


Confused Walking Cucumber

For Leia:

Confused walking cucumber
Choosing now
And now again
To change direction
And now again
Chasing the young breeze
The quizzical scent
Now again
Feeling thrill in the change
And bemoaning it’s frequency

Befuddled meandering phallus
Your beauty lies always in your actions
Capricious though they certainly are
And perhaps fickle
But definitely capricious
And probably fickle
Too bad you don’t like that word

Oh perplexed perambulating pickle
I miss our strolls
And vibrant conversation
Salty exchanges

Disoriented dashing dildo
Jiggles up top
Jiggles in the middle
Jiggles in the basement

Stumped strolling sausage
I’m sure you enjoy my alliterative endeavors
May you carry them always
During your frequent forays
And also now

Douglas Adams was Wrong

 Because it’s my fucking birthday again 

And I’m self centered, just like you

So I decree that 41 is now

The answer to life

Giving me new opportunities 

To rise 

From my brick red chair of oppression 

(Fuck you, chair)

And define my future

This is the pivotal year 

I will make shifts for my own good

41 is the answer to the universe

Beginning once again in winter

Host to ancestors and descendants 

Blessing with wisdom and compassion 

While enjoying a fat snigger at my flailings 

Guiding me to a spiritual home

A safe and warm space 

41 is the answer to everything 

Except 42


So I’ve got just one year to get this shit right

Happy Birthday, stone

Pretty sure 40 made you its bitch

So let’s do this

In the dark

when light disappears
there is a moment
the illusion of safety
and the expanse of everything
creeps into consciousness
catching breath
stopping heartbeat
feeling at once
and fear

In that moment
of shocking knowingness

I want my fucking anonymity back

in the dark
there is no place to hide

Of Corn and Crows

The hurt would be crushing
I should thank god for this fat suit
everyday insulated
because what would I do without?

Strands of truth and sheaths of anger weather
for the most part

I do not fear the wind or the rain
but the shadowed clouds laying low
whipping frenzied feathers
of false promises and hate
of incincere smiles
of petty desires
Am I feeling myself or your vile shit
Are you eating me alive

I should thank god for this fat suit
buying time
against the inevitable

My Voice

At what point

In the experience that life comprises

Can one definitively state

I found my voice/I have no voice

And what meaning would that statement

Ultimately have on anything at all 

Oh fruitless questions 

How I loathe thee


I’ll just pick up a honey colored  apple

Strip away its skin

Slurp it’s juices as I rend flesh with fingernails and teeth 

Spitting out seeds onto concrete

Dismantling the thing

Making ugly what once was beautiful 

In search of core meaning that changes nothing 

But adds the idea of flavor

Because the flavor of truth wasn’t enough

My malleable and manipulative mind

Cannot see the mechanical absolute 

That supposedly exists

So for now

I’ll say

My voice seems best silent


And my heart will fill the void