THE STUPID asshole tried to kill us.
Or is it, ‘It tried to get us killed’?
Good that it didn’t succeed. Thank God! Thank Good Lord Jesus, Moses, Mohammad, Larry, Curly and Moe.
Fucking asshole. Depraved selfish self-centered misarranged asshole.
Read MoreTHERE I was, alone. It seemed so sad, made even sadder by the mud and the rain and the faint chirps of brittle birds in brittle trees far away. To think, I thought, that I would be here, in this moment, half buried in the bulk of mud as my blood life bled out of my living life. But, it wasn’t like Hemingway wounded somewhere in Italy, his life, like a handkerchief adrift long enough to know not knowing before returning, almost wistfully, to it’s breast pocket. My life left and I stayed with it.
Read MoreThere was no silver here, nor gold, nor copper. There was little more than the occasional trickle of dank, green liquid oozing down the walls or across the uneven floor of the mineshaft. Still, they were sent down to dig.
Read MoreDear Orenda,
You subvert me at every twist of your head. Your dreamers lie prone in wait for salvation while the gusts beneath my wings torture their cheating hearts. The sheen of the scales on my back match the notches on their grimy tongues.
Read MoreInto a ballot box of pre-existing candidates / into an endless series of unlucky paychecks / into a Left of costume parties and facebook pages
Read MoreI went to visit my body to see how it was doing; it was not very responsive. It pretended I wasn’t there. That’s acknowledgment, a response, isn’t it? A step forward. You wouldn’t pretend if nobody was there. You’d just be you. Your normal, non-observed you. It was definitely pretending.
Read MoreEach mouth a wound or weapon.
If weapon, then the trigger is tongue
some men dispense for spectacle
for unfair light, teeth a crowding
your legs, a mess of wooden spears / to spindle-stomp a landlord
Read More“Can you hear that?” Agent Lightfoot couldn’t hear much over the sound of the engine and the churning spray. Her partner, Deputy Frost, was adamant though. “Can’t you hear that…?” Lightfoot cupped her ear. She could. “It sounds like… singing” said Agent Frost. Lightfoot frowned and listened harder. There was something tonal going on.
Read Morewe animate the damned / we wave our flags / we march / and / chant / “solidarity”
Read MoreHitched a ride from a limousine / fueled by festered gout, / traveled every wrecked highway / until the fumes ran out.
Read MoreBillie kept a jar of fire in her backpack / for cooking in parking lots / and a scimitar for cleaning gutter fish
Read MoreI invested in three cans of pepper spray / from the army surplus, / passed them out and bought ten more / to watch the masked kids / choke the air
Read MoreOr, to quote Marilyn Monroe: / “Its good to have caviar but not when you have it at every meal”
often / I have loved love / as a stranger // but not this hour // you are the witness / of my life
Read MoreTHE ROT BOG was overflowing with a stench fairly usual to it’s everyday foulness. Hershall D. Skeletoni, despite standing about ten feet from it in the stupefyingly moist heat of an Illinois summer, didn’t notice this, nor did anyone else in the world, because they were all skeletons now. Hershall sometimes wondered how long everyone had been a skeleton. But, he figured that at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter all that much as long as everyone could tell each other apart. Hershall separated himself from the other bone folks by scribbling his name across his skull in Sharpie every morning when he was done screaming into the sleepless void of night. This was how most skeletons distinguished themselves. Hershall however, like some, didn’t feel like this was enough. He didn’t have a dick anymore, so he didn’t wear pants, but he did like to feel cool, so he wore a leather biker jacket complete with a big scary back patch and some shoulder spikes. He also liked to carry an orange, scuffed, and dirty traffic cone under his arm. Hershall thought other skeletons might say things like “wow, look at that skeleton. What a badpelvis.” or “man, that cone goes really well with his patella.” However, most skeletons just said things like “what the fuck are you thinking, stupid ass? Skeletons can’t ride motorcycles. Take that fucking jacket off, poser-bitch.” or “Osteoporosis havin’ cone head. Look at this guy’s bone spurs. Have some self respect and sand those off already.” These things didn’t make Hershall happy, but in the end, he still thought they looked cool. He was intent on meeting someone else who did, too.
Hershall wasn’t all that happy about being alive again. He was born, like most skeletons, when his bone parents dug him out of a grave they thought looked nice, and put his bones all back together. After they chanted the magic birthing words, unholy light filled his eye sockets and he shuddered and rattled with new life. His new parents beamed at him like all skeletons had to because they didn’t have lips. “Welcome back, son! I’m your bone dad, Carlton, and this is your bone mom, Molina!” Hershall looked down at himself and the black soil that still clung to his ribs. “What the fuck? Why am I skeleton?” Horrible laughter clacked and rattled out of his bone parents’ skulls while their bony bodies jiggled and shimmied in a way that would have made anyone with a stomach puke. “We’re all skeletons now, son!” Hershall hated them.
Hershall had tried to kill himself a few times. Every attempt convinced him more and more how invincible he was. He had thrown himself into the bog just last summer. At the bottom he met a pretty nice skeleton who had tried to do the same thing years ago. They hit it off and talked about books they’d read. But, before he knew it, someone caught Hershall’s bike jacket with their fishing line and reeled him up onto their dinghy. Everyone on the boat started clubbing him.
He wasn’t sure why he came back to the bog this summer. He wasn’t trying to die anymore. Not only was it useless, it just made him sad afterward. He was trying to be more positive. He started thinking about his friend down there at the bottom of the bog. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brick with “u r cool. Love, Hershall” chiseled into it’s surface. He drew his arm bones back, and hurled it into lake right where he remembered jumping in. He really hoped his friend would read it, but he was sure he’d never get a reply.
when the first bullets split the
windows between us you were
more armor than whole
bristling with fuses
claymores the spiny
adaptations of class
war packed with nails
and love letters
you climbed the
makeshift barricades
into the line of tanks
becoming nothing in a
blister of hot air
when it was over
i was more alone
than anything
breathing in your acrid
mists awaiting my turn
* RUP: Right Unity Platform, formed in 2036 when GOP absorbed domestic fascist formations and far right militias
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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
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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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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