American

Street
jacket assed-open:

the road kill sky,

a mummified cat.

The tarmac
wilderness is astral.

Bluejay

I could
just leap out

of the weeping
tentacles

with my shutter
chest open

and capture
the sweetest hair.

The crows

have removed
my eyes.

I mean
one leaped

with my eye
out the socket

and stuck its
crud-feet

into the
crescent moon.

I am careening
in lunar agar,

spiraling

in rows
of corn,

in dark globules
of granite.

I am
creeped-out,

in ocular
beneath

the cold, static
tentacles of night.

*

The leaves
begin to fall,

and peeking
from the gravel:

A child says to
mom,

"what are these strange berries?"

Deforestation

I rattle out the coffin--unearth myself in granite--shed my skin in attics--my arm in eagle's shadow--I have awaken--in a cathedral, mangled--I am prepared--for the constellationless night--the slaughter--aped-out in a cave of giant skeletons--I witness my ejecta--spiral, milky lurking--my legs have been cancelled--a mysterious animal mutilation--the static residual--silver crawlspace--the space between bodies--a movement in bone-white--the sub-ethereal pines--when axes lick the organs.

Postcard

Wet bird, etherbird
crud-bird of unlight.

Here beneath the outcrops--
here in the vuggy wad,

the tesla-alloy scyscape,
Prairies' winds drone.

Dear Penny:

As you may
or may not know,

I dug your grave
with a hammer.

I can still
hear you

when I walk
upon the rooftops,

like Lincoln
falling into silver.

Arsenic Lobster, Spring Issue!

One of my poems was published in the new Spring 2014 issue of Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal. And I'm stoked to be published in the same issue as George Kalamaras, the Poet Laureate of Indiana. George is awesome! Stop in and read his work and the work of others if you get a chance! Go Indiana!

Ask Again Later

To me, my
face is

just skin
wrapped around

animated bone.

Some believe
that skulls

have magical
powers.

In relation
to skulls,

I met a little
girl at Meijers

the other day.

She was trying to find
a Magic 8 Ball

that said, "Yes."

Each time
she shook

the little orb
I could hear her brain

turn upside-down
as if to say,

"what's at the
bottom of this river?"

Tallow

Dogs
of bone
silenced
the right
hand.

The night
had wanted
to fathom.

Midblessed

Everyone
is a friend.

Every dark
whip.

Every
mysteryface.

Every
hanger.

Three
ruined jackals

in the iron.

The sad
case

of permarust.

5.1.2

I want to feel you
out with my macrosmatic animal.

You leave me

horribly agastopiafied

        in the terraflats 

                  beneath the outcrops.

Tulips

I like the way
you creep

like a bird.

I like the way
you creep.

Your deciduous
profile.

The way
you impress me.

I mean
the way press me

out of body.

White cathedral breeze.

Tsunami

Why, when my hands
wash across your oceans,
you bolt into the forest?

This One Weird Trick

where all the trees
are dead
against the stars

and the moon
hangs like a child--

imp-white, pretension.

I remember
when all the clouds
looked like animals.

Now all of the animals
just look like clouds.

What are Friends For?

There is something
nice about knowing that,

although we
are not friends anymore,

we are both
sitting in our

reclusive studies
thinking about

the same human problems,
wondering if things

will all come
together as we planned.

Morning

The sun made
a nice gesture

this morning
when it winked

at the cruddy
streets.

This relationship

is a droll hand.

Part 1

Crow's steam
then frog-blackout.

Eagle's shallow-flap
then thumpfeatherscream.

The bone cauldron's knocking.

Snakey in the Bluejay's Claw

It looks
like something

tried to find
God with a snakewhip.

How can you
blame an instrument?

How can you
blame a bluejay

when he poops
out of a cloud animal,

allegedly,

disrupting the Anthropocene?

Feeder

I anticipate
the shadows of birds.

This house
full of worlds.

Psalms

We live
amongst

this decay

in which
even churches

are condemned.

The first
thing to go

is the organ.

Sometimes,
in the silence

between

passing trains,
you can hear

the earth
reclaiming her songs.

Patty

All I remember
about my kindergarden

teacher is that she
was a huge old lady

with gigantic cellulite triceps.

The big bertha
of birth marks had risen

on her left arm.
My friend Mike said

it looked like a sausage patty.

               He was right.

Silverhawk

The city crumbles

round and
round.

The treeline
hangs

like scrap metal.

The crimson

horse is wheeling

In the
cryptic fringe--

this skyscape undertow.