NaPoWriMo #12 [w/ video]

Nocturnal Ode

She’s asleep in bed
dreaming of charging demons
and sugar plums
or whatever it is she dreams

I’m a night creature now
to escape the demands
of the day
where all the sickness of the sun
swelters clammy flesh to stinking
and the garbage takes on new
molecular forms to perfume the neighborhood
with coffee grounds and dead diapers
I’m allergic to the ultra-violent Texas rays

In a few hours the solar climb begins skyward
and I will climb into bed
where I will dream of cities made entirely
of dumpsters
I can’t stop dreaming of trash.
It washes in–
and soils everything pure.

NaPoWriMo 2020 #11 [video]

The Mountain is a Lie

you never question the character of a mountain
until you’re on top of one.
You realize that up here is just like down there,
only higher,
and you feel like you should experience
something more profound than this.

So maybe you post a picture on instagram
of you meditating on the mountain
to give the impression of the profundity
you think you should feel.

You get lots of likes
and people think you’re profound
and you let people think that
because it makes you feel good
and it gets you laid

It doesn’t matter that you’re a fraud
because so is everyone else.

Because nobody feels what they think they should
on top of a mountain.
It’s all propaganda put out by the
mountain industry
to keep people hiking
up listless climes.

NaPoWriMo 2020 #10 [with video]

My Writing Routine

Nowadays I write with exacerbation
trying to goad an apocalypse to some fruition.
It happens around 2am
or 12:30
or 4am
whatever the time
it has to be dark and I must be alone.

I make the coffee and read some Don Delillo
or Wanda Coleman
just a few pages
to get my brain horned up for words.

I smoke many cigarettes
I drink many coffees
I don’t masturbate
or think of myself as a martyr
I use the bathroom
I think of things in my day
and how they relate to
everything else in the world
I rarely eat

Sometimes there is bad music
playing in my head.
Sometimes it’s Nu Metal
from the early 2000s.
This is bad for business.
I listen to good music
or the words don’t come.

I swaddle myself in cocoons of creation.
I am a shimmering wizard
throwing ideas against walls
and making them stick.

Before I know it a poem appears.

I read back over what I wrote
and live forever in my hollow magicks.

NaPoWriMo 2020 #9

It’s time to do the dishes, writing a poem instead

my mom used to tell me that her sister’s feet
were so calloused when they were kids
that she could walk on broken glass

she said this at a house
on the edge of my memory–
a house where nothing grows
and nothing changes.

we were house-sitting then
for people who are strangers to me now.

we fed the dogs.
we picked up the newspaper
from the driveway.

broken glass
in the driveway.

broken glass is everywhere
in my memory.

the shards are built for pain.

i bleed too often.
no callouses can protect.

NaPoWriMo 2020 #8


leaving the house means
surrounding yourself with a
subdued panic
and wrapping yourself in plague
and all the people
who were anonymous before
now look the part
with plague masks
and burial dreams
and we’re all just wondering
is there a point at which
all of this breaks into a
crescendo and rolls back?
is there a climax to this story?
and the tragedy is
that it all just
rolls on

NaPoWriMo 2020 #6,7


maybe poets put themselves
in volatile positions
to mine more material.
maybe we’re asking for it.
or perhaps
we hurl ourselves
into the maw of living
to bring back teeth
as souvenirs
so we can say
we truly did it.


“Never write about poetry”
Dave used to say.
He was one of those writers
who made a lot of arbitrary rules
for himself
and then expected everybody else
to follow them.

He used to do things like
get drunk alone
in his apartment
and watch the same
GG Allen documentary
until he got riled up enough
to smash a VHS tape with a hammer
for the fuck of it.

Last I heard
he was living alone in Ohio
amassing a crossbow collection
and yelling at ghosts.