How to Rebel From those Convulsions


I walk into class
Reeking of cigarettes
The cheap ones
I so poorly roll myself

I turn my back to the green world
Pleading for a spoon feeding
To see how much
Rat poison I can endure

They say it doesn’t kill you
It just makes you weak

You can feel it hit
Like an I.V.
Electrical charges
Plugged into the outlet

They so easily find
Where the neck tapers
At the blind spot
On the back of my head

Initially it shocks
Strapped to their hospital bed
Scalded, 3rd degree burns
For a reaction
As natural as death, blue skys, and insanity

I claw at the nurses
Her eye made a popping sound
When I dug my fingers in her skull
And pried it out

I gave mercy, I left the eye
She kept her dignity
It sits on her cheek

She sits, watching the children Scaring the children
Playing ball in the park
But their eyes haven’t receded either

They sit, plump on rosy cheeks
And like she once did
Before death
Before reanimation

She can see
A simple cleaning of the lens
Isn’t enough

* I do not condone violence against women and believe it should be punished to the fullest extent within and outside of the law. It’s not cool.

The Squirts

I need to be better
They’ll all leave,
Break off a corner and get just a taste
Well I’m all broken corners
Or I was until you all came around
Now I’m dispersed
Residing in the intestinal tracks
Of all of the vultures
And the man eating praying mantis
Here I burn in their stomach acid
Somehow more pure than holy water
The squirts blasting from your ass

Illness in Prose

The words dance behind bloodshot eyes like the tip of a flame around the jet fueled cylinder. Swatting at phrases and stories liable for redemption, hoping that this catch will finally get you on the map. That they’ll all be wrong about you and your “success,” as make believe as a small girls dreams of a unicorn, or a middle age man’s plea with fate in playing the lottery.
All I see are pictures. Pictures of my boy hung upside down. Eyes swollen shut. Suspended in the air by over-sized fishhooks traced through his inner organs and workings, wound together like mother’s knitting.
How dark can it get? How far can I travel into the recesses of my brain to find the images that disturb and outrage? How can I be so desensitized to the thought of my own father mutilated and maimed by the hands of terrorism? Or shrapnel tearing through Vietnamese children like a chainsaw cutting through paper?

My Dear

She always worried for my health. She saw a discolored bump perched on my hip bone.
“Is it an std?” She asked.
“Is it cancer?”
I wasn’t sure, but I remembered I was young so I must be invincible
So I replied
“No. When I was younger, mother was bringing in the groceries and a man approached her with a gun. I was very little and I knew, even then that I was a super hero. So I charged him. He shot me through my pelvis and murdered my mother.”
“your mother’s still alive.”
Fucking ay.
“Then I don’t know.”
We dry humped until we were both raw and walking like we had been horseback riding for too long.

She’s my wife now and that was long ago. On nights when I’m feeling waggish I make her kiss it goodnight. On the nights she watches one of her flicks, where the guy falls for the girl, she uses tongue.
I like it when she sucks on my boil
But it pops. Hah
long pink
It emerges
A look of disgust across her face
She pulls out a little piece of earth from her mouth, twisting at fingers end
And throws it into the dirt of her garden placed under the window sill
I always said I was an environmentalist.

Growling at Passing Hearses

Every time that lighter fires
a lurking

“that’s one for you
(arthritic finger
at the smoke stack
between my frigid lips)
and two for me”

the blade spins
the sting
up my legs

stomach spinning
grated cheese
spitting wood pulp
torso turned
to frayed edges
of shag carpet

I can feel it
cigarette starving
shaking under dim street light
I’m ready
the light waning
roaring laughter
to a malicious chuckle.