virtue

I hadn’t cum in three days
and so I had trouble finishing
when I finally bent her over

just before the moment of fruition
I’d get a migraine behind my right eye
my stomach would begin cramping
and I’d start sweating like an idiot

I felt like one of those backed-up volcanos
the kinds that were capped off
and building pressure slowly
over the centuries

and when I did cum
the result was more or less the same

the force of the blast
shot off the roof
leveled the city around us
and blocked out the sun

the shockwave of it all
caused cataclysmic earthquakes
the sudden shift in temperature
brought hurricanes
and flash floods

and the earth itself
spun out of orbit and
hurtled into the sun
and the sun hurtled
into the center of the Milky Way
and the Milky Way hurtled
into the center of all creation

and all that remained
floating in the void
was us and our bed
and our mess:
a lasting testament
and cautionary tale
of man’s virtue

Heroin Bob

Just got pulled over for “not blinkering enough”
before moving into a turn lane. I watched 
the cop approaching in my mirror. He had 
his hand on his gun. You probably shouldn’t 
become a cop if you feel threatened by someone 
“not blinkering enough,” but then again,
you probably shouldn’t become a cop.

After he explained that he pulled me over
for “not blinkering enough,” he studied
my registration and insurance card.
Then he paused when he saw my license.
He leaned in close. “Bro, I knew you 
seemed familiar. You recognize me?”

I did.

We used to Sharpie “PUNX NOT DEAD”
and “FUCK” in minuscule text along the frame
of Mr. “Rambo” Williams’ whiteboard. Did it
for months until he noticed and crashed out
and threw his pencil holder at a wall.
We folded homework into planes 
to fly at the bus driver’s neck. Payback
for her daily ritual of blaring that dreadful
“I’m proud to be an American / 
where at least I know I’m free” song.
And payback her seeming inability to stop
commenting on the unhoused man 
we often passed on the streets: “He shoulda 
stayed in school.” Once, we got suspended 
when a rich kid said that the friendly janitor
“smelled like poor” and we decided to flush
his senses by dunking his head into a toilet.

I squinted at my old cop friend. 
“School. I knew you in school.”

He nodded. “School.”

Tonight, GG Allin is rolling in his shit.
He was a poser, too.

my life as an orc 

at the feeding camp we watch freedom porn all day
the chow is thick and makes my limbs grow strangely
heartwarming stench from the latrines and the cooktents 

robotic statues keep tabs at all times
they sing for the newly killed robotically
moaning with rales like crows with jeers like crows

weapons training brings live edges into play
dueling is encouraged but only to the death
let the cook pots be filled with the flesh of the slain 

runes etched into my armour and my skin
behold the swelling veins and nodules
carunculations giving way to boils full of natural acid

if i rise in the ranks i will grow thick scales 
much like the sergeant gloating magnificent 
with slick tendons and thews 

he stamps and harangues us thus
come orclings and smell the blood just spilt for you
sink in your teeth and worry out your gobbets 

names we have given you blades we have given you
use your teeth when you can and when all else fails
for we have the fangs of animals

The Devil With a Gun 

He rode a crooked path across the plains, and started young
Fifteen years old, he robbed a widow with a stolen gun
He rustled cattle, hijacked trains, kidnapped a banker’s child
He killed a missionary priest and left his church defiled

There weren’t laws enough that he could say he hadn’t broken
With fear and anger, people cursed his name when it was spoken
Lawmen far and wide gave chase, then by and by they’d quit
His luck and daring more than they could counter, they’d admit

With each new wicked episode and cunning getaway
He’d ride a stolen horse to find some hideout place to stay
Some town where still his infamy had yet to stake its claim
The signpost, worn and weathered, said “Diablo” was its name

His horse tied to a hitching rail, he scanned the dusty street
No wanted posters – just the place to hide out from the heat
A dark and airless barroom in Diablo’s lone hotel
Betrayed a vile aspect and a burning brimstone smell

He bought a bottle from the bar, and gravitated towards
A sleepy poker game with four nobodies tossing cards
He anted up and drew his hand and studied all their faces
As his cards revealed triple queens beside a pair of aces

He bet ‘em big, “I’ll play these”, he knocked his turn to draw
And pushed five Stella golds to the pot, the players all in awe
Three chumps threw in their hands, no taste for such a daunting bid
The fourth replied, “You’re called”, and ponied up to match the Kid

“Too bad for you”, he flipped his cards, “Full house.”, and grabbed the money
But the caller said, “That pot is mine – I’m holding four jacks, sonny.”
“You thievin’ cheat! You stacked the deck – there ain’t no way you beat me!”
And shot him dead right where he sat, “No hayseed’s gonna cheat me!”

The bar cleared out, the gamblers fled, the barkeep led the way
The gunman grabbed his ill-got gains, no one to call his play
Except, back in a corner, in shadow dark as night
A lone spectator, dressed in black, set his cigar alight

“You waitin’ for some action, or just too scared to run?”
The Kid addressed the specter, as he lowered his smoking gun
An eerie silence wracked his nerve, his heart beat fast and thin
The rancid smoke from the cigar? … or from the stranger’s skin?

Then slowly, two eyes glowing red beneath a Stetson’s brim, 
The spectral witness crooked a finger, grimly beckoned him
“Draw near and your attention give this gamble I propose.”
The fiend gave off a profane heat; smoke eddied from his clothes

“When evil, left unchecked, in course of time meets evil greater,
“There needs to be a reckoning – a duel – sooner or later
“Your murd’rous ways have brought you to this curséd place and time
“This day you’ll meet your fate; you’ve nowhere else to run and hide”

Old Lucifer himself sat there, assumed of human shape
The Kid, struck dumb in horror, could do nothing more than gape
“You’ll have the chance to see tomorrow morning’s rising sun
“But first you’ll have to duel against the Devil with a gun.”

“You’ll walk with me out to the street”, he told the Kid, “… and there
“You’ll have a chance to walk away from a duel, fair and square
“But first, you’ll have to draw and fire before I shoot you dead
“And if you fire and miss, I’ll claim your mortal soul instead.”

The Kid, his innards cold with fright, said softly, “Pass me by,
“I’ll saddle up and leave this place – I have no wish to die
“Life on the run’s my punishment for doing what I done
“My soul ain’t worth your time”, he told the Devil with the gun

Beelzebub swept back his cloak, a pistol on his hip
A wicked laugh escaped his throat and curled his ghastly lip
“You rode into this living hell and killed a man for sport
“It’s not a choice I’ve offered you – your time is running short”

“Sundown is just an hour away. It’s time to face your fate.”
The Devil nodded towards the door, The Kid replied, “But wait …
“Can mortal man destroy the Prince of Darkness with a shot?
“If you’re immortal – bullet-proof – then what chance have I got?”

The Devil laughed again and offered, “Kid, you beat my draw
“And mortally wound this human form, then surely, I’ll withdraw
“You’ll walk away and leave a lifeless body in the street
“Your evil to continue ‘til on Judgment Day we meet”

The Devil laid the ground rules for the deadly game of chance
“Back-to-back we stand.  When I count ‘one’, we both advance
“And step another pace each time until I’ve counted ‘five’
“Then turn and take your shot, and may the fastest gun survive”

On “one’ the gunmen stepped apart; on “two”, another stride,
To then proceed with “three” and “four”, the same on either side
But Satan did not plan to give the Kid a chance – the liar!
He turned before he got to “five”, and pulled his gun to fire

But as the Devil pivoted – a flash! – a shot’s report!
And through his wicked skull a .45 bullet bored
No way the Kid would trust the Prince of Darkness or his word
He turned at “three” and fired, and dropped the demon in the dirt

The smoking lifeless body that his deadly shot had claimed
Smoldered for a moment, then burst into blue-green flame
The last remains of Satan, brought forth in human shape
A mound of ashes only, nothing left of hat and cape

Though darkness now descended on the town, the Kid ran scared
He lashed his horse into the night; few people saw or cared
But witnesses – the few who hung around to see him run –
Would swear they’d watched the getaway of the Devil with a gun.

***

Originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind

hot air balloon

Ronnie and Red came over unexpectedly
on a Sunday afternoon
they sat on the loveseat facing us
and I asked if they wanted anything
to drink

“no. we’re fine” she said,
looking bloated and irritated
“we haven’t had a drink
in the last two weeks.
we’re trying to hold out
for the entire month”

“sounds terrible” I said,
refilling my wine glass
“I’ve been meaning to cut back myself.
I don’t want to quit or anything,
just take it down to three glasses a day”

“well, actually,” she said,
more bloated, more irritated,
“that makes you an alcoholic.
government studies say
you can only have two glasses per day.
women can only have one”

“I prefer to be called ‘wino’”
I said, taking a long, deliberate sip

“you’re at an increased risk of heart-disease
and cancer”

“so what else is new? 
didn’t the government also say smoking a joint
was like smoking five cigarettes?”

then she ballooned up so much
she filled half the room
Ronnie had to sit on the ground
he started talking about his new job at Best Buy,
a minimum wage job, yes, but a job he enjoyed
but it was hard to hear him
over the hot air 
whistling out of Red’s mouth,
sailing out of Red’s ass

“I make his daily wage in an hour!”
she bellowed, now floating out the balcony door
“I make more money than all of you!
I’ve quit drinking! I’m on Keto!
I’ve lost weight!”

and she floated up
over the balcony
over the trees outside
over the telephone wires
and the city buildings
all the while shouting 
how great she was

none of us stopped her,
not even Ronnie
and she disappeared into the stratosphere
a fat, sober hot-air balloon 
rising to a heaven of her own design

and the apartment was finally quiet,
peaceful

Ronnie looked at me,
didn’t have to say anything

I brought the wine over
with a fresh glass
and poured him to the brim

he smiled

moderation
was a wonderful thing

Fuck Haikus IV

My three holes need you
Stars are burning through the night
Your cock makes a choice

I swallow your cum
Busy bees suck out nectar
The joy of feeding

Shackled to the cross
My body kissed by the whip
The river flows fast

You twist my black hair
A raven caws overhead
Your cock in my throat

Two boys open me
A heron spreads it wings wide
They own my body

The soldier is rough
Nettles crowd the rose bushes
I scream as he fucks 

Canine ecstasy
Dogs howling in the kennel
I present my cunt

Furious 

I’m playing bocce ball
with Nadia and she can’t stop 
talking about hotpants, kombucha 
and kitsching the Cantos. 
Then she tells me about buying 
a speargun at DICK’s and how the leopard 
at the zoo in Berlin has a big, glittering 
mouth. My first attempt to place the jack 
is disastrous. “A fall from grace,” Nadia 
says. She’s eating a furious vulva 
which is really just
bittersweet chocolate 
with pink peppercorns and Hawaiian 
sea salt. There’s a sign in the park 
that says Keep Off the Grass. 
Some kids took a Sharpie to it 
so now it says
Keep OFF ERING the Grass.

Nadia says I’m the last female 
hysteric and I can’t disagree
because she knows every inside joke. 
I’m corrosively cute. 
Makeup tarred.
Dress feathered.
I’m the young female experience, 
a curated collection
a braincase ballerina.
I once fucked a guy 
whose dick was a cardboard cutout 
of the Eiffel Tower. 
Time gives it meaning, he said. 
Who can argue with that?

Fucking attack me

Fucking attack me.
I want your mouth against mine,
like all the oxygen in the world
has left except for what remains in my lungs.

I want your teeth and tongue on my neck,
writing a blue black sonnet
on my carotid.

Your right hand
will grip both of my own,
holding me up,
keeping me down,
as I submit in every way I can.

Your left hand is a gentle contrast,
tracing whispers on my face and ribs.

Make me forget.

Turn my world into nothing
but this heat, and this pain, and this love.

Make me forget
the outside, the front door, the hallway,
so that we are here in this bed
and we are all that exists.

Kiss me.
There.
And there.

Learn my scars and heal them
with your lips.
Make me believe I’m holy.

Make me forget.

***

Originally appeared in Cacophony (2023)

Never again

Never again, we say.

            BOOM.

Tall and broad shouldered,
square of jaw and deep of voice:
Never again, they promise.

We will seek out the shadows
and we will bring light, they say.

            BOOM.

And together we will watch
as cities burn—
fire was always a source of warmth,
anyway.

            BOOM.

Don’t breathe, they warn.
We can’t control the poison in the air.
Don’t go too fast;
a bullet will come quicker than asphyxiation.

And today we stand here,
breathing in the cold, dead void of space
that we once thought we would travel
before we abandoned another horizon
without oxygen.

            BOOM.

Are you buried under the rubble?
Good, they say, you’re safer there.

Have you been trapped in your home by debris
while your world burns?
Shut your eyes.
The smoke might damage them.

            BOOM.

Death isn’t instant.
Each second ticking by leaves you with hope
for a savior.

(Was it was supposed to be you? they sneer.
Were you too busy needing to be saved?)

And today we stand here,
bleeding out and wondering how long
a thousand cuts take to lose so much blood.
It’s so much less than you expected.

Is it going dark, now?
Continue on.
We bring light, and haven’t you heard
what’s at the end of the tunnel?

The fires burn, and burn, and burn.
And we burn with them.

            BOOM.

      BOOM.

BOOM.

***

Published by Rising Phoenix Review, (2020)

Make my body a shrine

I need help because
for the first time
words are failing me.
My pen has run dry
and the typewriter keys are just a jumbled pile on the floor.

So I must make due.

I kiss Neruda into your collarbone
and think of cherry trees.

I lick Carver into your mouth
and promise, beloved, no early morning talks;
no one can reach us now.

I bite Rumi against your shoulder and 
let you devour me in this violent world—

You make my body a shrine
and I strive to stop yearning so quiet
so you know that yes, I, too—
Yes, I, too—

I don’t say,
Here are my carotid and my aortic and my femoral,
tender from your fingers because 
yes, I am here to breathe for you (yes); because
yes, my flesh is here to be the canvas
    for your bruising teeth and tongue (yes); because
yes, because I don’t care what you do (yes)
if afterwards you press
your lips, gentle, to my skin.

You stole my words,
with your breath, with your mouth—
Now I’m forced to borrow,
to steal,
but if you keep looking at me like that while I do
then (yes) I’ll keep pretending to be a poet.

***

Edited version of “Lost my words,” published in the 27^th Poetry Ink Anthology by Moonstone Press, 2023