Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





Rancid Organs

Grasping at straws to keep

going, her heart is a split

pomegranate.  Atriums

empty.  Both ventricles

picked dry.  Cell by cell

plucked from her still breathing

corpse—all done with the tartness

tickling your taste buds, the rind

in her chest is there to rot with no seeds

left.  She drags herself to her non-stop

graveyard shift.  Your lips are stained

various shades of scarlet

by your fingers.

Viola of Bone

Failing once is never

enough, for the tattooed mile


markers of Paradise Lost etched bloody

on your dominant arm are merely


the finely tuned craftsmanship of catgut

constantly failing.  Can there be a grander


aesthetic of complete failings?  Clutch the ground

as if it could save you.  Dust is not


necessarily interested in ballads sounding

in a metronome of broken things.  The glory

~~~~~~~~~of suffering

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~is constant self-deconstruction.

Man Between Excess and Deficiencies

You do not do, you do not do…

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

~Sylvia Plath



Ugly truths beat heels in boots

to the ground.  Forget the sound of her


breath in your own entrapment.  Crouched

down with your burden, now your daughter


suddenly seems intent on flaunting explicable

moods. Too much life is happening.  I’m just an insect


you crush with your traumatic

withheld words. Daddy, did you


do it? Do you even know

what you’ve done?  Soldier boy,


you made a killer of your daughter. Look

at the wings I traded you for: flowing white plumage


flaring through the brimstone, the stink of flame from this

life you abandoned me to.  In the mirror of dead faces, of silent


voices, the makeshift patriot can watch the girl

he once strapped with raw hide, hide her


heart under the steel of her left foot.  The only weapon

she has inherited for protection from the decay


climbing up choking like a weed is the ink

pen held by her south paw.  For you, her words


sting of the brutality of the fact

you are dead to her.

4 Days Later: Give Me Water

Every small gesture signals the known

world is a house of cards running down water


spouts out to the gutter you are so used to.  You no

longer have any fear of falling.  Some sort of ending


in a little brown raft is carrying my heart.  What

kind of paradise am I

looking for?  My face painted by the sun


bears my masked words hiding from my tongue, as they

fucking echo in my head: every scream,


all those promises.

Don’t mates


have the primary purpose of keeping their tribe alive

no matter what?  Why is that so hard for us


to understand?  It must be too simple

for such sophisticated things.  Simple truth is I don’t know


shit.  But it’s when someone’s eyes glisten in a new faith

requiring no God, just the word exhaling over my biting


lip.  It’s like the calm beauty of the Bay called Misery

while constellations dance on the sweeping sound of water on sand.

For the Children We Are Killing

The boy as old as your own

walks to the convenience store


to meet his murderer is disremembered, until

it haunts your own eyes.  No rose-


tinted glasses work here.  The mildly


waifish woman—her efforts to remain silently

unseen are in vain because that just makes her more


mysterious.  She steps into another world she

creates with fingers moving along


typeface.  The page forgets nothing

even when the voice which penned it is cold,

is gone, is no more.

Entropy Elegy

To the sum of a battle cry

can you help?  In the different selves


outside of oneself a sickness has taken

hold.  The sad melody of malady


gripping the heart gone

stunned by reality


seen in plain sight that no

one seems to see. I have


not the language to explain—but I try.  Too


many of this city’s people who would

rather go another day not thinking


because the things they cannot unlearn

are too scary.  Ugly truths


refuse to be forgotten climbing like aggressive

clematis choking out everything in its path


only to bloom and die year after year, after life-

times of forgotten ago.  Vines coil tight to find


stability for the rest of itself with violet and magenta

blooms which fall petal by petal, until they look


to the naked eye as to be dead.

This Alien Is Real and He Has a Name You Won’t Bother to Remember

Ten year old boys from Nepal

are all doped up on Risperdal

just to control

their fear.  Getting suspended

from school for sharing

the chewing bark his father

gave him to feel something from home

in this landscape named after Misery. The poor

child was afraid of vegetables

having learned early, in his short life, anything

growing from the ground around the camp is

toxic, and here is

no different from there when you have

witnessed the horrors this child of the Himalayas

has to drag with him through the broken

neighborhood, just missing the drive-by shooting

from the high school aged kids.  Death toll

is rising.  We are all losing.