Losing a Finger on Their Label


I want them all to think I’m some radical insane

Feeding on the deteriorating morality

Of their McCarthyism

I want to be the one cockroach

That picks up the foot and tosses

The capitalist aside

I want to be the procommunist


That everyone can find a piece to hate

Labels are like diseases

Slowly you watch pieces

You once cherished fall and

Rot from the bone

As one conforms and

Three murders two,

Only four three to find

He’s been played

By the all powerful five

Choke Collar


You deceive me
With your hand against
my bruised cheek
and the other excavating
my insides


I didn’t know
That the lining of my stomach
Could thread me through
to neck, to noose,
to bumper

Of snarling
Of what was once

Before snow snuffed
Up jolly noses
She traces back

sunny side up smiling
Burnt to the asphalt
Road rash face mask

She crams my resigned inners
What once was
A man I was proud of

Dirty laundry
Stinking mildew
And self pity

She picks up reanimated
And locks me in a glass room
Scratching at crystallized pane

When it breaks
And I make a run for it
The choke collar tightens
Knowing happiness
Is quick at the tips
Of your grasp
And never quite

Sharpen the damn blade

The thick skin
that dog determined
won’t detatch

watching the guillotine
dropping, dropping
drip by drip
with each passing

If it would just sever
the anti climactic finish
sweat seeping
from frustrated pores

I’ve been residing in the basket
since the new year’s eve party
dropping again, again
but at best
a nic

but it’s been so long
they keep my cranium
in their filing cabinet
rusted shut

Holding Hands with Self Deprecation

Our hands look like battlegrounds
From tightened grips
Breaking away
Clawing at sweaty
Bleeding hands

Pick up the dirt from the ground
Rub a clump
Into the open gash

It’s alright
As long as I can hold your hand
One more time
And maybe
Stop writing poetry
that sucks dick.

Laughing Electrical Chairs

I told him that I’d be great.
That my words would soar and I would dedicate each breath
To changing this world of angst

But read it back to me
Throw me a line
You’ll know how impossible this is
This must be

The shit I put a bow on and call gold
My platinum predecessors
Know this path
They know how far behind I lie

They sit on thrones, burning electrical chairs
Laughing at me.

I am so many years from the gun
And when I reach the trigger
It still won’t be good enough

So what’s the point in trying?
What other option do I have?

You’re Going to Die

At the doctor’s
Mid colonoscopy
With a camera
Miles deep
In intestinal tract

On the porch
Drowning in phlegm
With a hand rolled Van Gogh
Snorting lines of adehral
In meticulous kitchens

with inexperience comes
a misunderstanding
Surgical glances from across
The housing project of children

Just swinging in
From mother’s
umbilical cord

They can’t understand
How initial hesitations
Turns to the self loathing
Of addiction

The circulation is faltering
The tips are numb
My motions
My motor skills
Are not my own

Even when I’m pulp
Between sieve bullet holes
It’s not real

death comes to the weak
And the prison inmates
To escape the yard
And drive their Cadillac
Off a cliff.

A corpse
My individual example