Mathematical

cult-ic </math>matics <an item>                      I will paint you into nothing 

aligned=”equalized array”> sum                       strip you of your ears 

she – it – he – us – you                                                                         this is catastrophic 

calculated iambic rotation 

cukf                                                                    can you cast out god 

seagull 

rodeo ford                          with               pig seeps

clucking diamonds               idiot martyr 

“eat at joe’s”    free cra b yokohama ­

            all tuesday               snoring 

humble does               snoozing 

less ruminating   don’t lie to me                     tom murphy 

  ascemia                               is my bodyguard 

not me 

                  or do 

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With the Threat of Heavy Fighting

With the threat of heavy fighting looming in the streets, many windows stayed open. The Holy Ones smacked their lips and twisted their fingers in their well conditioned hair.                   

Elsewhere…

 ...a man name Jacob fell dead on a thursday in the back of Factory #7. He was found at shift change tumbled over in a parts bin attacked by his own heart. A supervisor packed the contents of his break room locker into a mint tin and sent it to the coroner. His obituary would say that he was survived by a twelve hour swing shift. 

Elsewhere…

...my rifle plants tomatoes and claps back on facebook. Big Momma and Big Black rule the roost in our backyard chicken coup. They don’t understand the meaning of class. Each morning we steal their eggs and feed them to the others. 

Elsewhere…

...renters went out on strike. They threw up barricades at either end of sixth street. They shot an arrow into the wind with a note attached to it. The next day a truck full of pizzas arrived courtesy of the labor council. The note had said, “Send bullets”.

Elsewhere…

...there was a knock at the door. Maria Villareal opened it at 7:42:08. Three weeks later she was gone. They called it corona. Her obituary would say she was survived by an unlucky paycheck and 13 parking tickets.

Elsewhere…

...two mutual aid workers stabbed a fascist in an uptown alley. The police called it murder. The mayor said the victim was a good person. The barrio called it community defense and burned down a Walmart.

Elsewhere…

...They dug graves for the dead in abandoned parking lots. The coffins stretched for years.

Elsewhere…

Everywhere…

Always…

We’ve carried their boots. All we have to show for it is our chains.

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Good Bad Kid

I was born
in a flash
the morning sun

I was born
as a demon
to my mother; capricornic

all fresh, wet, and dripping
with the paint?
of someone's blood
and my great-grandfather's tobacco spit

my lungs both filled with water
I was already a special case
causing terror
delicate thing ruining lives

her face frozen as a twisted pale
statuette there was a truck parked
on her chest

my horns grew in and my
tongue was like a kriss
undulating steely sharp
edge a paradox
why did I plunge it through her heart

the lamb softly bleating fading out
and her tears slowly dripped into
her chest

I learned what I was.

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Suburban Lightsick Lullaby

Hold your breath
under the covers,
sing that song to yourself;
the one you never
sing in public.
The one where grays
sound transcendent orange and purple,
electrode home equity happytime and
graham crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Beyond damage,|
popping asphalt lungs,
crazed unfortunate 
living on war bread and tailpipe oxygen.

Coffins eat hospital beds.
One funeral, ten.
Ten funerals to mass graves.

And their disinfected veins
have woven
into the bad angels 
from nightmare fairy tales.

Sleep safe
under my gelding knife,
grenade.
Tomorrow a picture
of the sun
waits for you.

Stay in here,
where we wait
for the last dumb sucker
underpaid soldier 
to die.

In here,
where time bends around you.
And where God is a 
loving reactionary.

Don’t you dare dream
of outside.

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10,000 Years in the Life of a Shelf Stable Reverse Osmosis Pulsar

If I lived 27thousand
300-
78 years
I would lose one billion hairs
99 percent of billionaires are 
Not billed
One quarter of prescriptions are
Not filled.

Mixing damiana
and valerian
Rather than being 
NyQuiled
Keep it raw keep it raw keep it raw
Not grilled
Wanna have a voice?
Invent a language
Get quilled
Wanna stay, living on the bay coast?
Get gilled

Super-massive
Black-hole
The truth floats around us, gaseous
Super-massive
Black-hole
Utopia arises out of sinking paradises
Super-massive
Black-hole
The truth comes down on us, distilled.

Consciousness begins to condensate
Distilled
Consciousness as a liquid state
Distilled
Flow 
Over the cup,over the vase
Distilled
Flowing from a distant place
contemplate

Existence as a liquid state
Coming from a different space
Contemplate
The complexities of the 
Gaseous mass
And the societal structures of bacteria living in Intestinal tracks

Saw the future, saw the future, saw the future
Not thrilled.
These bastards are actors, not masters
Their labor is stolen and
Unskilled
Don’t celebrate at the ceremony
The value and debt are both phoney
Leave your loans unpaid
Perceptions unfilled
99 percent of billionaires
Are not billed

I saw the future I saw the future I saw the future
Not thrilled
Knock it down knock it down knock it down
Rebuild

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Mirror Mirror

It’s time to talk about the mirror.
It’s been sitting in the corner all week.
strange and vivid shadows dance through it.
I’ve watched them pass each day
all day
They pass through and sometimes look
like someone I know
each time
someone still living, someone I love

It’s been another week
are you a fool?
I’ve been telling you now for two weeks
those shadows pass each day
all day
and one of them looked like you
for a second I swear
one of them looked like you
that foolish face and that
ass cleft chin were
unmistakable

Three weeks now since
that mirror moved in
it’s out of the corner now and 
it’s at the foot of the bed.
I see the faces and shadows passing
each day
every day
and now I’m sure
it’s you.

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Toilet Key Anthology #2

One night, you’ll get up from the chair,
tired of your music and the cricket’s chirp.
You’ll head outside, engrossed in your phone,
and only look up after your cigarette is lit.

On the trash can, there will be a man draped,
head bowed, admiring his hospital blanket cape,
and he will be talking to the pigeons sleeping above him.

Trash Mage will raise his arms towards the steel canopy,
shaking the scratchy blanket free from his shoulders
revealing he’s only wearing torn swimming trunks.
Tied around his middle is a red tie from a garbage bag,
with a flashlight and a lighter tied to the slack.

He will say he’s schizophrenic,
but it’s safe because he knows.
He will say he knows the voices he hears –
he will pause to cover himself and ask for a cigarette –
the voices aren’t real even if they’re pretty cool. 

Next time you see him, head shaved, 
he’ll be dressed in two coats and Carhartt pants. 
He’ll say your boss told him he can’t come inside. 
He’ll say he knows it’s not your fault,
but he’ll try to steal peanut butter. 
After he apologizes he asks for one last cigarette 
before he takes the 109 to wherever looks quiet. 

Kirsten, chain-smoking Timeless Times, 
will quietly side-eye Trash Mage
He’ll say he wants to build a gazebo,
big enough to house everyone without a home,
and Kirsten will call him crazy,
despite once telling you about feelings,
and how she sometimes has to cut hers out.

There will be a 14-year old boy
in a dingy, puffy, orange coat, 
who will steal donuts and milk
and sometimes sandwhiches.

And when his picture finally says
“Call 911 on sight!”
he will be begging along the side of the building
for bus money.

You’ll have to chase him out for show,
as your assistant manager watches from inside.
The boy will stay just out of reach,
grinning as he holds tight to the food,
telling you he thinks you’re pretty,
that he needs to eat to live just like everybody.

Another night, you’ll have a cigarette
and he will tell you how there’s never food,
and he doesn’t want his younger brothers to steal,
so he takes stuff sometimes.
You’ll give him bus money, just off camera,
and he’ll ask you for a cigarette before saying ‘thanks.’
The word tumbles out as he disappears into the alley. 

Drawing and digital collage from Born Again Labor Museum (2020).

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