The 1998 HousefireThe 1998 Housefire at 198 Wentworth SouthThe 1998 Housefire6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Snow falling on cinders; falling on issues,
300, of Mad,
and Nintendo Power;
falling on a consoles red Cyclopean power (cooked
internally, blinking to black,
volumes of ongoing adventures, dreams of power,
my life in virtuosity, melting,
gooping into Grade One element comprehension);
falling on posters and curtains
gone up fire-fast, like Japanese letters read
falling on the bamboo-print
bed, the heat
to beat the heart;
falling on candles;
falling on bookshelves great with stomach
falling on shadows
I once hid from as from
a hungry ghost;
Falling where Nagasaki
where the ceilingwhere the roof
I feel the pain of everyone.
Then I feel nothing.
The Endocardium As We Know ItIt's the Endocardium As We Know it (And I Feel Fine)The Endocardium As We Know It5 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
That's great, it starts with a heart rate,
Palpitate arterial veins
My Mitral Valve is unafraid
Eat up a sugarcane, listen to your heart burn,
Lub serves its own needs, dubby serve your own needs,
Speed it up a notch: beat lungs, no, chest,
The bladder makes you fatter with pee bright yellow might
Fire up the wires beating 72 per minute
In a ventricle that's higher at a low-fat site.
Oxygen is coming through the larynx and pharynx
Breathing down your neck.
Beat by beat the quarters strangled, lumped, weathered, stopped.
Look at that fat chain.
Fine, then, uh oh, overflow, masticate the common food,
it won't do to save yourself, serve yourself organic snow peas
listen to your heart beat, dummy with a tummy feeling crummy
fat is quite light. You might have colic, diastolic-jam
bright white light fuzzing out your sight.
It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm just some bones)
It's the endocardium as we know it. (I guess I'm jus
Stitches: A SonnetThe surgeon's plump fist fit in the skull's half-scooped tub.Stitches: A Sonnet4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Stitching up, after the hemispherectomy,
each needle pump sealing off the left half's torn stub.
Grey, brainy clouds roll over missing metropoli
of all function and control, the mind's pup and cub,
neuron-storms over seas of phantom memory.
Only stitching remains to kilter the neck's hub.
Fontanel of Bible-black thread fed through holey
scalp-skin makes fusion from entropy's urgent drub.
Criss-crossing wire hems this fear: scars shaping bony,
knobby, crusty ridges, burbling up just to snub
the stitches, shed like baby teeth, and as lonely.
Right half on a pan, a nurse passed in bloody scrubs.
So the patient voided, avoiding ignomy.
Feather, Knife, and WifeUnpretentious princess at the lip of the wildFeather, Knife, and Wife4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
broods on her position in the tribal order.
She's gritting her teeth at development's border
with weapons unfit to inspirit kismet's child.
An arrowhead barely tattoos the tractor tread,
A hand-axe fells not the crane its longevity.
Ironicallly, the machine's owe their brevity
to the First Spirit's black blood wrested from breast's red.
A computer geek morningstar, alive by chance,
going cold turkey off his electronic life,
stumbles from the rubble of Armageddon's fire,
surprised to discover unmolested expanse.
She trains him in the ways of feather, knife and wife,
First Spirit's gifts renew him, return him, rewire.