major prophet

I was a being molded for nobility. I was concave, seeking the weight of that which came from heaven; primed for the blight of that which is holy.

Ah, but tis a balm. Tis a current. Tis a voice. The assuaged have woven their nets in which to catch visions, but often they speak in colloquialisms.

Yet I am incapable of duality. My neurons make it so. My organs make it so. My vessels make it so. There are none righteous. There are none who understand.

Is it I alone who can give my hunger a proper name? If not, dare I share the feast? For none could bemoan my false burdens like I do. None could know my nauseous raptures.



there’s a blonde out there saving my life

roots torn through soil;

this crusted rot our inheritance snatched up from below in armfuls, in mouthfuls; endless regurgitation in all manner of forms; a breeding ground, it has tasted of us in return

yet our lungs have vindictive capacities;

our minds have capricious visions;

and at the base of my fragile fumbling tongue there is a wailing – at the base of my trembling medicated heart there is a stampede


savoring the gashes on my skin


call me on Thursday night

I thought I was loving you, but it turns out I’ve been ignoring you for years. Not your presence; not your memory; not the smell of your hair or the angle of your eyes or the bold petulance of your voice when you believe in your own infallibility; not your diet, not how often you exercise, not how much sleep you get when you’re motivated by that perfect score, light on late into the night, make-up on thick the next morning when you go out; not the times you laugh, the times you smile, and what it must mean in regards to your chemistry; not the boys who take you to dinner and the girls who get you drunk; not the books you quote or the heroes you profess to have; not the ignorance you possess when dealing with the unknown, not the polish of your walk and the force of your mind; I could never ignore the way my chest constricts when you head out into deeper waters; I could never ignore the rage that burns inside of me when you arrive at some conclusion I’ve long sought; I will never be able to ignore the pain I felt by your heartless, thoughtless design and the love I experienced when I told myself that I deserved it; and above all I cannot ignore the fact that if I had only resisted my own mind and body, you might still worship me as you once did.



I an accordion, sour in ways that you can’t taste

taken to watching your tongue move up and down in a half-concocted picture-show that covers hands, legs, eyes, teeth, and all in motion!

(what of your glut;

a beacon always shone there, nurtured like a vine on nights when I saw nothing of you