My Body Got a New Job

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.

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Resurrection

THERE 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.

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The Boss

There 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.

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Born

Into a ballot box of pre-existing candidates / into an endless series of unlucky paychecks / into a Left of costume parties and facebook pages

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I Live an Hour From My Body

I 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.

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Reach For the Dead

“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.

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The Calcium Chronicles (Part 1: Atlas)

THE 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. 

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Attack on a RUP Column

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 

attack on RUP.jpg

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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 

mathematical.jpg