Dry Cough


Smoking, Cigarette, Smoke, Unhealthy, Cigar, Addiction

Charcoal lungs



on another’s


splitting spliffs

like decalcified pine bones

but the nausea overwhelms

and I rock to the breeze on my back porch

the cold shearing years

off my life,

carbon monoxide

turning my marrow brown

Knowing Love like Drug Addicts

Some mazes are found within.
Some get lost, and never find their way out.
Some have mazes with no way out.
Anxiously they run from one side of the maze to the other
Combing through the barbed wire hedge
The cracks in this primitive stone walls
Crashing like glass bottles
For a window
Into a genuine

Most abysses are far from this earthen surface
The longest, hardest trails can’t be walked
The hardest struggles are not of the body
But of the soul

The worst hurt won’t be
At the end of rusty box cutters
When you refuse to hand over
Your survival
To the parasites
In the darkest streets.

Getting lost
In the mind
Where there’s no road flares
No street signs
Just a black hole
To descend further
And further into

Insanity Meditations

Helping the masses understand insanity
Just a little bit better
My words
Aiding contemplative suicides
And real men that don’t bother to use a mask

Only 18
And already my heart aches
Like a swelling, slowly inflating
Far beneath my ribs, and decalcified bones.
Where I forgot
That I too am human
Pump me full of another drug
And I’ll soon forget again
Hopefully I won’t remember
How it hurts
To be real

Masturbate, music, migrate, massacre, mediate
All of the things
At the disposal of 18 years
Of rot.
These are the tasks of a writer
Changing the world with words of wonder
While asleep on the girlfriends couch.
Fighting hate and fuckery
From the armchair, blue pabst in hand.

Like a Crooked Spliff

Like a crooked spliff
embers chase down to the filter
shrouded in layers of ash
sins taught by a book
With small declarations in gold embroidery

Bibles your family and friends flashed
Like Spanish vocab
Smoldering beneath layers of conventional guilt
Until ash is secreted in a series of grooves
In a never ending road top

Sometimes stogies
Are crushed into the pavement
Eager to burn
But chance has snuffed potential

In hell’s eternal flame
unable to find
The generosity
Of a 5 o’clock shadow
With a lighter

Hemingway and a Hand Grenade

It’s 30 below
In the valley of Mount Kilimanjaro
The plane crashed moments before
The departure from the runway
Like the spreading knees
From the flaps of skin pulled back
Push bitch
And he never understood the pleasures of the peak
the mountain top
The feelings of inadequacy
That they’re all so better than me
Better than I
That’s the way to die
With a red pen
Mightier than the sword
Correcting and critiquing
All the way to hell
But reassurance
In the bottom of the bottle
At the end of crooked spliffs
The King conquering the corners of the world
Too tired
Too pained to leave his throne
To guide his throng
The slave
That would rather take the dirt
In the wounds
That stains his shirt
Than to stand up
And dedicate his life
To a cause much greater than he
Or anyone else
May ever understand.
I wish to be this slave
I wish to grab the teeth of the nine tails
Of his sordid whip
And pull him forward.
Knock him off his feet
Or at least stumble
futile rebellion
Then die
Knowing I took a stand to a power
That as far as I could ever foresee
Or was
Entirely unstoppable

Early Morning Aspirations

circle heavy eyes

you sink into bed
tearing self
from the warm sheets
like debarking Douglas fir
the desire for dismemberment grows
Into the intricacy
of the stream beds

not all battle scars
originate from war
tap the tree at the base
drip sap bitch

How much is drained
before the weight
becomes too much?

the only thing
to keep you alive

gas station 40’s
and enough weed to get
all of Africa
stoned for a week

How writing takes its toll
I’m a child
And already
I dream of death

Freedom is from the same place of the mind as apathy

Leave the bra
Hanging from the headboard
Tap dance on scattered needles
Like it’s a red
To the trigger that you’ll never
have a handle of

Let the teeth stain
A seasoned brown
With tobacco juices
A healthy veneer

Drink stolen malt liquor
Like it’s a vital aspect
Of our composition

without it
For three days
You’ll die

I can hear the siren song from lisping garlic breath

We all sink
restrained in pot holes
of sinking mud

under my heel
I can feel the sorrow of the last writer
He wasn’t so fortunate
it’s far easier
To sit

The blood of Christ
And the sermon
We used
to roll this joint

rush towards the end
There’s a road
Off of Sammish way
Where you can see the writers sinking
On each corner

There are some small craters
Where the greats used to be
I can see Kerouac crater
Right between
Steinbeck and Poe